Twenty Years of Stealing My Food
by hwshipper
Summary: House Wilson long established relationship backstory over twenty years, from first meeting all the way up to canon. Part 20 now up: Wilson tries to make his marriage work and House employs three new staff in succession as we reach canon. Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 1  
**Author: **hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta: **enormous thanks to bornbeautiful  
**Author's note: **Part 1 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, taking us all the way to canon.

**Summary: **House knocks Wilson down with his motorcycle. H&W meet-for-first-time, flirt over food, and start to invade each other's personal space.

**Excerpt: **As House was dressing Wilson's arm, Wilson looked at the box of Cheerios on the counter, and realized it was_ his _box of Cheerios that House appeared to be eating his way through. In fact, he'd thought all week that the level in the box was going down rather fast. And although he couldn't be entirely sure, he thought that the half empty gallon of milk sitting on the table was also _his_.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 1**

Wilson had been living in the hospital-shared house for a week before he met the mysterious Greg House, who lived in the attic room.

"Met House yet?" people asked him.

"No, who's House?" he asked.

He quickly found people reacted with raised eyebrows, smirks and knowing looks, and he wondered what the mystery was.

The morning he met House, Wilson, hot and sweaty in T-shirt and sweatpants, was returning home from his early morning jog. As he slowed his pace before the turn into the driveway, he saw a man on a motorcycle approaching from the opposite direction. The bike vanished out of sight behind a large parked van.

Wilson turned into the drive and suddenly the bike was right behind him. The motorcyclist hit the brakes sharply, but not soon enough. The bike bumped Wilson hard enough to knock him down. He put his arm out to break the fall. He let out a sharp cry as he felt his skin rubbed raw against the concrete.

"Shit!" the motorcyclist exclaimed. He killed the engine, pulled off his helmet and hopped off the bike.

Wilson, sprawled on the ground, felt it was imperative to get up as soon as possible. He steadied himself with his left hand and managed to stagger to his feet. He looked up and saw a tall, lanky, unshaven man staring at him through piercing blue eyes.

"I didn't realize you'd turned in the driveway. I thought you'd gone on down the street," the man said in a tone of apology, though without actually apologizing, Wilson would realize later.

"I live here," Wilson responded.

"So do I," said the stranger, as he tilted his head to one side and peered at Wilson. "You must be the new boy."

"James Wilson. Pleased to meet you," Wilson said without thinking.

He realized how incongruous the phrase was to say to someone who had just run him over, and added awkwardly, "You must be Greg House."

"The same," House said shortly. "Now, I guess you're probably okay as you're on your feet and talking, but lemme see that arm."

"I'm fine," Wilson protested, but his knees chose that moment to buckle slightly.

House's eyes narrowed and he stepped forward. He grasped Wilson's right arm and turned it towards him. Wilson let out a yelp of pain.

House spent a couple of minutes examining first Wilson's scraped arm, then his leg. He made Wilson bend and flex his elbow and knee, and walk a few paces.

Wilson was pretty sure he was okay, but complied obediently. He knew House was a doctor; he himself just a newbie medical student. As he let House examine him, Wilson became uncomfortably aware of how hot and sweaty he was. He had pushed himself hard on his run, and his T-shirt was wet and clinging to his torso.

House was also sweating, though for different reasons. He was wearing biker's leather trousers and jacket. He stopped for a few seconds at one point to wipe sweat from his forehead and pull the jacket off.

House lifted the sleeve of Wilson's T-shirt up so he could examine Wilson's shoulder. Wilson found himself within inches of House's face. Wilson caught scents of oil, smoke and sweat, a smell that came from wearing the same clothes too long. That, combined with the fatigue etched on House's face, made Wilson conclude that House wasn't returning from an early morning ride, but coming back after a night working.

House put his hand against the side of Wilson's head, catching Wilson by surprise. Wilson's eyes closed as House ran his fingers through Wilson's hair. House lifted his fingers and waved them in front of Wilson's face; they were red with blood.

"Did you hit your head when you fell?"

Wilson hadn't noticed his head was bleeding, as his hair was so wet from the run.

"No, well, I guess I did, but not hard."

House stepped back a pace.

"I think you were lucky; it all looks superficial, though you're going to have a hell of a bruise on your leg. I think we both need to take a shower; you wash all that blood off, and I'll dress your arm. Also, I'm starving--I've been up all night with a case of kidney stones. I'll see you in the kitchen in twenty minutes."

He looked inquiringly at Wilson, who felt rather dazed by the list of instructions, but nodded.

House raised an eyebrow and asked, "You're not going to faint on me in the shower, are you?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Wilson said hastily.

House nodded, and headed into the house. Wilson followed slowly, his mind also moving slowly. Just for a second he had thought House had been proposing they shower together--but no, there was more than one shower in the house. There was one on the second floor, which Wilson had gotten in the habit of using, as it was closest to his room, but there was one on the third floor too.

Twenty minutes later, clean and wearing a fresh T-shirt and sweatpants, Wilson headed into the kitchen and found House sitting at the kitchen table. House was also clean, but still unshaven. He was wearing a short scruffy bath robe over T-shirt and boxer shorts, and consuming a bowl of Cheerios.

Wilson poured himself a tall glass of water.

"How's your head?" House asked, through a mouthful of cereal.

Wilson felt blue eyes sweeping up and down his body. He gulped down some water.

"Fine. Just a cut."

Wilson sat down at the table. House abandoned his breakfast bowl for a first aid box attached to the kitchen wall.

As House was dressing Wilson's arm, Wilson looked at the box of Cheerios on the counter, and realized it was_ his _box of Cheerios that House appeared to be eating his way through. In fact, he'd thought all week that the level in the box was going down rather fast. And although he couldn't be entirely sure, he thought that the half empty gallon of milk sitting on the table was also _his_.

He realized House was watching him work all this out, and seemed to be waiting for some sort of reaction. Wilson wondered what to do--be outraged? Laugh? Ignore it, and keep all his food under lock and key in future?

When he simply looked at the Cheerios with his head on one side, House remarked casually, "Box is nearly finished."

"I guess I'll want to be replacing it then," Wilson said, deadpan. "I was thinking about getting the honey nut kind next time, what do you think?"

House's craggy features broke into what Wilson thought was a faint smile.

"I think... I like you, Jimmy Wilson."

House shut the first aid box, stood up and put his empty bowl in the sink.

"You should put some ice on that leg. I'm going to get some sleep," House said as he left the kitchen.

Wilson stared after him, and began to understand why House was considered--eccentric.

Years later, he would reflect on how appropriate it was that their first meeting revolved around House stealing his food.

* * *

The following evening, Wilson was in the hospital bar. It wasn't actually part of the hospital, of course, but so close as to be constantly populated by doctors, nurses and other hospital staff. Wilson had arrived with a group of other new students, none of whom he knew very well yet.

Wilson was standing at the bar waiting to be served when suddenly someone appeared next to him and leaned on the counter, bringing a fist down with a thump. Wilson turned and looked, and was surprised to see it was Greg House. He was dressed a little more conventionally than their last encounter, though still looked just as unshaven.

"Buy me a drink," House said, not making it a question.

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "The honey nut Cheerios not good enough for you?"

House grinned. It made him look like a wolf.

"Not enough milk in the fridge this morning to make them really swim."

Wilson shook his head, and bought House a drink. They made their way to a table and sat down.

House ascertained that Wilson was not suffering any major effects after his close encounter with the bike, and then asked, "So how's life in the smallest room?"

"It sucks being next to the front door… and next to the kitchen…and it's tiny," said Wilson. "Is it true that the rooms get progressively larger and nicer higher up in the house?"

House nodded sagely. "Everyone new starts in that room. Each time someone leaves, everyone else moves up a room."

"Until you get to the top? Bet that takes a while." Wilson had heard enough on the grapevine to learn that House was now into the second year of his residency at Columbia.

"Oh, you need to be in the house at least a year before you get to move up a room," House said solemnly. "And you're only planning on living there six months, until your fiancée arrives from Canada, right?"

Wilson was taken aback. House was either omniscient, or had taken the trouble to find out about him. Frankly the first seemed more likely.

"Er, yeah, that's right. She's finishing a course before coming out to join me. We'll find an apartment together when she gets here." Wilson felt he was blustering slightly, and changed the subject. "Anyway, I thought the hospital house was only for short-term leases. How on earth have you managed to wangle staying there longer?"

"Every so often the accommodation administrator remembers me and says I have to leave, then I go and screw her, then she kindly forgets about me for a bit," House said nonchalantly.

"No kidding? The brunette? She's hot," Wilson had been going back and forth to the accommodation office for the last few days, sorting out minor problems with his room.

"Yeah, it's no hardship. The blonde in that outer office though, definitely has the edge. But she won't give me the time of day."

"I thought she seemed friendly when I met her."

"I think she goes for younger men," House said pensively. "Play your cards right. You never know."

There followed a long and enjoyable conversation about the relative merits of the female accommodation office staff, followed by the finance office staff, and then the personnel staff.

At one point House peered closely at Wilson and said, "Should you be even noticing this sort of thing, with your fiancée n'all?"

"I can look," Wilson said defensively.

House looked speculative but said only, "Another beer?"

* * *

After the bar shut, Wilson and House headed back to the house. Wilson was rather drunk and regretting that he had to be in work the next day. He suspected House felt similarly.

"Coffee needed," Wilson said, heading into the kitchen and peering uncertainly into a cupboard.

House looked over his shoulder. "Oh God, you don't drink that instant crap, do you? Come up to my room, I've got some of the real thing."

Wilson followed House up the stairs. He hadn't been to the very top of the house before, and now saw that House's attic room really was an attic room, with a sharp flight of stairs up to it more like a ladder than a staircase. Once inside, Wilson was amazed; House's room was about four times the size of his own, with a separate bedroom from the living area. Books and journals littered the room. There was a large TV and even a rather bashed-about-looking upright piano in the corner. "How on earth did you get the piano up here?" he asked.

"Force of will. That's why I can't live anywhere else but this room, I got it in, but I'll never get it out again." House had a mini fridge, and a kettle and cafetière sitting on top of it. He produced a posh looking brand of coffee from the fridge and switched the kettle on. "I'm an insomniac; I play every night at 3AM."

"Bet your neighbors love you," Wilson said dryly.

"Being in the attic, I don't have any neighbors above or to the side; just the one guy underneath," House smiled rather evilly. "He knows if he bashes on his ceiling I just go on longer. I shouted at him once, and he's been scared to death of me ever since."

"You like having everyone scared of you?" Wilson inquired interestedly. He had only been at Columbia just over a week, but it was his strong impression that everyone seemed to be scared of House--his housemates, his hospital colleagues, people who had never even apparently met him.

"Scared is a bit strong," House said thoughtfully. "Intimidated, perhaps?" He poured water into the cafetière.

"Intimidated, then."

"And not everyone. You interest me, Jimmy Wilson, for various reasons, number one being that _you're_ not intimidated by me," House pointed out

Wilson hadn't thought about this. "I guess not."

"So why's that?" House pressed. "How many more boxes of Cheerios do I need to steal? How many more drinks do I need to cadge off you? I knocked you down with my bike for Christ's sake, why don't you just tell me to fuck off?"

"Perhaps because _you_ interest _me_," Wilson said, and he saw that House liked that answer.

The conversation drifted onto the merits of fresh coffee. House's coffee was indeed excellent, and Wilson eventually rolled down the stairs to his room on a caffeine high, musing on how curious it was that he seemed to have become friends with the man who notoriously had no friends.

* * *

A couple of days later, Wilson had bought his lunch and was walking through the hospital cafeteria, debating which group of people to go and sit with, when he saw House sitting in a corner. House most assuredly did not look like he wanted company; he was sitting in the only chair at a small table, Walkman ear buds in, and reading a journal article which together with his tray took up almost all the table space.

Feeling slightly mischievous, Wilson went across, pulled up a spare chair, and sat down. He put his own tray down on the table, pushing House's own tray several inches over in the process.

House looked up in surprise, and for an instant there was wrath on his face, until he saw who it was. His expression then turned amused and speculative.

"Hi, House," Wilson said casually, biting into his cheeseburger.

"Wilson." House savored the word. "Do you know what happened to the_ last _person who interrupted me at lunch?"

Wilson had been soliciting stories about House for the last few days, and had been told many tales, most of which sounded like urban myths. He had not come across any horror stories about House being interrupted at lunchtime, though.

"Must have missed that one," he said.

"He was found shivering several hours later in a cooler box in the morgue," House said darkly. He reached over and grabbed a handful of Wilson's fries.

"Hey, you've got your own!" Wilson pointed out indignantly.

"Ah, but they taste so much better when they're stolen," House said, chomping them down.

Wilson defiantly reached out and snatched a handful of House's fries, and ate them. "Mmmm. I guess you're right."

House looked at him with an expression that seemed to say_ Do you have a death wish?_--and leaned forward to see what else was on Wilson's tray. His eyes lit up at the sight of a chocolate brownie on a plate. He reached out--and Wilson's left hand clamped firmly down on top of House's right hand, pinning it to the table.

"Uh uh," said Wilson.

House relaxed his hand and Wilson loosened his grip momentarily; as soon as House tried to break free however, Wilson pressed down firmly. It felt rather as if they were engaged in an arm wrestle.

"Have I found your sticking point, Jimmy?" House said smoothly. "You'll do anything to defend the honor of your chocolate brownie?"

"Absolutely." Wilson picked up fries with his right hand and ate them. House did the same with his left. The two of them ate in silence for a minute.

"You know," House said presently, "If we carry on holding hands like this, people will say we're in love."

Wilson grinned. "Then they'll think otherwise when they find me in the morgue cooler, won't they?"

House couldn't help but grin back. He flexed his knuckles but Wilson didn't budge. Wilson knew that House could have broken free if he really wanted, was letting Wilson play this one out.

Wilson eventually finished his fries and burger, and surveyed the chocolate brownie contemplatively.

"I feel I've earned at least a bite," House said piteously, trying to move his hand.

"OK, we'll split it," said Wilson, and broke it in two. He slowly eased his hand off of House's.

As Wilson moved his hand back, House stretched out his fingers, and for a couple of seconds their fingers interlaced. House and Wilson looked at each other simultaneously, both startled by the unexpected shared intimacy, then each pulled their arm back sharply and looked away. House reached out and picked up the slightly larger half of brownie; Wilson meekly took the smaller bit.

END OF PART 1

Next part: House and Wilson continue to invade each other's personal space, until...


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 2  
**Author: **hwshipper**  
****Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Author's note: **Part 2 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, taking us all the way to canon.

**Summary: **House and Wilson continue to invade each other's personal space, until...**  
Excerpt:** 'I'll give you the key I have to _your_ room, if you give me the key you've got to _my _room,' Wilson countered.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 2  
**  
After that day, House and Wilson fell into a habit of lunching together, which amazed everyone in the hospital. It didn't happen every day; Wilson was an over-achieving hard-working student studying all hours, and House was frequently too preoccupied with a case to even remember there was such a thing as lunch. But they looked out for each other, and if they saw each other, they sat together. The food stealing had become a game, with House always taking things off Wilson's plate, and Wilson periodically making it difficult for him.

One evening House came home from jogging and found Wilson in the kitchen, polishing off a bowl of pasta. House and Wilson were both in the habit of going out for a run most days, but not together; Wilson the early bird went first thing in the morning, while House the night owl went in the evening.

"Hi," Wilson said, scraping the bowl clean. "Sorry, that was the last."

House sighed in mock exasperation, said, "Not good enough," leaned over the sink, and gulped water straight from the tap. He was not only covered in sweat and soaking wet. His T-shirt clung to his torso. He straightened up, and found Wilson eyeing him up and down.

"What're you looking at?" House asked, a trifle aggressively.

If he'd hoped Wilson would blush or deny it, he was mistaken; Wilson, as ever, took him head on.

"Your prize-winning entry in the wet T-shirt competition."

House glared at him. "You're looking at my nipples."

Wilson blinked and said, "You looked at me this exact same way on the day we met, when I was coming back from running."

"Did not!" House said indignantly.

"So did," Wilson countered.

For once in his life House couldn't think of anything to say, so he simply thumbed his nose at Wilson and walked out of the room.

* * *

A few days later, House was lunching in the hospital cafeteria and keeping an eye out for Wilson, when Wilson appeared with a tray, chatting to a blonde student nurse with a pronounced cleavage. To House's surprise, Wilson looked around, saw House, detached himself gracefully from the blonde, and came and sat down.

House raised his eyebrows. "I'm flattered."

Wilson looked at him inquiringly.

"You could've spent the next half hour staring at a rack like that, but you've come here to be insulted by me instead."

"You're the one always saying to me that with my fiancée, I shouldn't be noticing other women," Wilson retorted.

"And of course you've started taking my advice?" House said sarcastically. "Anyway, it's not just her. Nobody understands why you've started spending time with me. The first time you came and sat with me--uninvited, I might add--you stepped away from the herd."

"Oh God, you're doing a differential diagnosis," Wilson sighed.

"Why did you do it?" House asked. "Why come sit with me? And carry on sitting with me, at the risk of social exclusion by the rest of the entire hospital?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's not that big a deal. Maybe I just like spending time with you."

"But why?" House pressed.

"I'm sure you have a theory you're about to tell me," Wilson said dryly. "So go on, surprise me."

"You," House said, waving a fork in Wilson's face, "want to specialize in oncology. Nobody does that unless they're an absolute sucker for punishment. You want to spend the rest of your life telling people they're going to die and there's not much you can do about it. Then watching them die, knowing there's nothing you can do about it. No well-balanced person wants that. Therefore you are not well-balanced. Even though you hide that extremely well, behind your smiling, friendly veneer. Deep down, you want to be around people who need you. And that's why you want to be around me."

"I suppose there's absolutely no point trying to argue about any of this?" Wilson inquired sardonically. "And what does that say about you--that _you _need _me_?"

"Well, _I'm_ not well-balanced," House said, as if that was obvious (which it was, but Wilson still looked surprised to hear House say it). "Everyone can see that. Every girlfriend I've ever had has wanted to fix me in some way."

"You think that's why I hang around you--because I want to fix you?" Wilson asked, and his voice was angry now.

"No. Or you'd be in that morgue cooler now," House stated. "It's not just fixing with you, or you wouldn't want to be an oncologist. You're attracted to the hopeless cases. The ones that can be helped, alleviated, but usually not in the end actually cured."

"House, why do you have to try and explain everything?" Wilson said despairingly. He took a deep breath and struck back.

"Actually, don't tell me, I know. You did want to be a nephrologist, but now you want to do a second certification in infectious diseases, because you like figuring out weird and wonderful illnesses. It's the diagnosis you enjoy, even more than the treatment afterwards. And all this means that you end up treating people like mystery illnesses--they need to be diagnosed, even when they aren't ill. People to you are just puzzles, where you have to fit all the pieces together, aren't they?"

House blinked, taken aback by Wilson's swift analysis. After a moment he replied, "Yes. But most people are namby-pamby age-up-to-five-years three piece jigsaw puzzles which take two seconds to figure out. _You,_ on the other hand, are a five thousand piece puzzle with most of the pieces missing."

"House, I think it's time for you to just shut up now," Wilson said sharply.

* * *

House had gotten up slightly earlier than usual one weekday and was in the kitchen, wondering vaguely if he might bump into Wilson going out to or coming back from his morning run, when he saw the door of Wilson's room open and a woman come out. House didn't recognize her, though he only caught a glimpse of her face before she hurried out of the front door. House looked at the clock; way too early for her to have just popped round this morning, she must have been there all night.

Delighted to have another piece in the Wilson jigsaw puzzle to pursue, House immediately headed into Wilson's room to investigate. Wilson, sitting at his desk piling papers together, nearly jumped out of his skin when House appeared magically inside his room.

"House! You have a_ key _to my room?" Wilson was outraged.

"Used to be my room, didn't it?" House said carelessly. "Guess I forgot to give a copy back when I left."

He carried on swiftly before Wilson, left speechless by his sheer cheek, could respond. "So who was the lucky lady leaving just now? She just come round to wish you a good morning?"

Wilson glared. "So she stayed the night. What's it to you?"

House raised his eyebrows. "Last I heard, you had a fiancée waiting for you back up north. Or do you have one of these open relationships?"

"No," Wilson said grudgingly.

"I knew it," House beamed. "You're one of these guys that just can't keep it in his pants."

Wilson breathed in deeply, and said, "Excuse me?"

"You're one of these people who just can't go without sex for more than ten minutes without shagging the nearest thing in sight. A man-whore, if you will--"

_"Fuck--off!"_ Wilson picked up the closest object to hand, which happened to be a book, and threw it at House. House, a veteran lacrosse player, caught it deftly and threw it straight back. Wilson ducked and then lunged furiously at House, trying to throw a punch; House caught him by the wrists and held on tight.

They stared at each other, faces just a few inches apart. Wilson tried to move, but House was bigger and stronger than him. House's long fingers circled Wilson's wrists, and his stubble almost prickled against Wilson's cheek. House was aware of Wilson's morning toothpaste breath in his face, and could smell his shampoo in his hair.

"Fuck you," Wilson said eventually, and the spell was broken. House let go Wilson's wrists. Wilson broke free, slumped on the couch and said, "OK, so I'm a serial cheater, I'm a bad person, and I'm going to be a terrible husband. Happy now you know all that?"

House left quietly. It had all been more than he had bargained for.

* * *

That lunchtime House didn't see Wilson in the cafeteria, and was sufficiently disturbed by this to go looking for him. He found Wilson sitting eating sandwiches on a bench outside, not a usual haunt for either of them, but just easy enough to find with a little bit of searching. House deduced from this that it wasn't that Wilson was hiding from him, but that he wanted to see if House would seek him out. And House had done just that. House felt a little uneasy by Wilson's ready reading; he wasn't used to anyone being able to read him at all.

House sat down next to Wilson, and swiped one of his sandwiches by way of apology. Wilson rolled his eyes, but didn't object, and therefore accepted the apology.

"Why do you always have to know everything?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged and ate the sandwich. "Maybe I'm concerned about your fiancée."

"Yeah, who you haven't even met," Wilson scoffed.

House switched into differential diagnosis mode. "I don't need to. I know what she's like. Small, mousy, dark hair--"

"You've seen the photo of her on my desk," Wilson interrupted.

"--Clingy, not as bright as you, has been planning her dream wedding since the age of six, is now desperately happy that it's happening at last. Possibly willing to ignore a bit of straying on your part."

Wilson stared at House and admitted, "That's not too far wide of the mark." There was a pause, and Wilson added, "I've told her, you know. When I've--cheated."

"Oh well that's alright then," it was House's turn to scoff, and he couldn't help but ask, "So has it happened often?"

Wilson thought for a minute. "We've been engaged for a year. I didn't look at anyone else for the first six months, but in the last six months--I've slept with three different women."

"Including last night?"

Wilson grimaced. "Four different women."

House shook his head. "And she doesn't mind?"

"Yes, she minds! She minds a lot. She cries for days and forgives me in the end. Like you said, she's clingy. Me, I'm just a bastard." Wilson's tone was self-mocking and bitter.

House was silent for a moment, then said, "You're not a bad person. You just…" he shrugged. "Can't keep it in your pants."

Wilson punched House lightly on the arm.

* * *

That evening House arrived back home late and tired, having had a difficult patient defying diagnosis. He opened the door to his room and was outraged to find Wilson lying lengthways on his couch watching TV.

"How did you get in?" House spluttered. "You've got a key to _my_ room?"

"Funny, that," Wilson said lazily.

"Where did you get it?" House demanded. Wilson tapped the side of his nose mysteriously. House thought for a few seconds and said accusingly, "You've been making eyes at that blonde secretary in accommodation, haven't you?"

"Better that than fuck her boss every few months like you do to keep _your_ key."

"Give that key to me right now," House said furiously.

"I'll give you the key I have to _your_ room, if you give me the key you've got to _my _room," Wilson countered.

House was flabbergasted, and a small corner of his mind couldn't help but applaud Wilson for his strategy. He couldn't let Wilson get away with this, though.

"No way. If you don't give the key, then I'll take it from you," he threatened.

Wilson shrugged. "It's on me if you want to come and find it." He grinned, a trifle flirtatiously. "You may not want to delve exactly where it is though..."

House was temporarily dumbfounded by Wilson's nerve. He stormed off into his bedroom to dump his backpack and take off his jacket. He took a deep breath and headed back into the lounge, where Wilson hadn't moved.

"Whose couch is this anyway?" House demanded, and Wilson reluctantly moved his feet so House could sit down.

House sat, reached into his jeans pocket, and pulled out his key ring, a large one with at least a dozen keys on it. He dangled most of the keys off the ring, and held one key aloft between his thumb and forefinger.

"Here it is. Come and get it."

Wilson eyed him warily. "Like it'll be that easy."

House merely looked at him. Wilson sat up, waited for a minute, and when House blinked, Wilson tried to grab the key ring. House easily snatched it away. A wrestling match ensued, which ended with them falling off the sofa in a tangle of limbs.

For the second time that day, their faces were inches from each other. Blue eyes stared into brown eyes. Then their heads moved together, their eyes closed and they touched noses.

Then House very gently took Wilson's lower lip into his mouth, and sucked it lightly. Wilson let out a tiny strangled sound in response, that seemed to House in that moment to be the most erotic thing he'd ever heard. Their mouths pressed against each other, tentatively, softly.

It was electric. It also felt like the most natural thing in the world.

They eventually stopped, pulled apart, and broke eye contact. An awkward silence descended. House didn't want to freak out, but was very afraid that Wilson was about to freak out.

Wilson was the first to speak, scrambling to his feet, saying meaninglessly, "Well it's late... I'd better go..." He left.

Alone, House lay on the floor, breathing, and thought Wilson had undoubtedly gone back to his own room to jerk off. Or perhaps that was just House himself projecting.

House recalled the differential diagnosis they had each done on why they'd both chosen to hang out together. He now recognized that they'd both failed to mention an additional reason.

They each fancied the pants off the other.

* * *

For the next few days, House and Wilson avoided each other, each feeling the need for some space, to try and figure out what had happened, and what on earth they wanted to happen next. The key issue was dropped and never referred to again. They bumped into each other in the hallway one morning, and at Wilson's suggestion, they went out for a drink that evening. They fell into bantering the same way as before. Each was secretly relieved about this.

While in the pub House spotted a woman eyeing up Wilson. "Blonde at ten o'clock, looking your way."

"Where?"

"My ten o'clock, not yours."

"Oh." Wilson saw her out of the corner of his eye. "This happens a lot. It's a bit of a pain," he said self-deprecatingly.

"We all have our burdens to bear. Oh--she's coming over." House raised his voice, and said loudly, "So Wilson, tell me more about your fabulous fiancée. When's the wedding date again?"

The blonde woman veered away. Wilson was amused. "Thanks, I guess."

House looked at him, and choosing his words and tone very carefully, said quietly, "Better you wrestle with me than have a one night stand like that." He kept his voice deliberately very light, leaving it completely open for Wilson to laugh it off.

But Wilson didn't laugh. Instead Wilson looked closely back at House, and said, "Yes. Let's go home."

House felt as if they'd both fallen off an abyss.

Without further conversation, they went back to their house, up to House's room, and as soon as the door shut behind them they moved together and started kissing. Wilson gasped as House thrust his tongue in his mouth. House shuddered from head to foot as Wilson pressed his full body up against his, and he felt Wilson's cock like a steel rod against his thigh. He twisted his body so as to rub his own cock against Wilson's hip, and Wilson let out a strangled exclamation. They each dived to undo belt buckles; House put his hand inside Wilson's boxer shorts, grasped his cock and rolled his hand backwards and forwards; Wilson groaned, "_God, House," _in a most gratifying way. Wilson reached out in return, and House saw stars and thought he'd died and gone to heaven at the sensation of Wilson's palm pressing against his cock. He bucked his hips, rubbing against Wilson's hand.

They each came within the space of a minute, and collapsed on the floor in a sticky mess. It felt great. It felt right.

END OF PART 2

Next part: House and Wilson each try and figure out what the hell the other wants from them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 3  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** Gratitude and honours shared between earlwyn and triedunture  
**A/N: **Part 3 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.

**Summary:** House and Wilson each try and figure out what the hell the other wants from them.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 3 ****  
**  
House glared at the arrivals board again and gritted his teeth; Wilson's plane was late. He was only flying back from Canada, for Christ's sake; the whole flight was shorter than the two hours House had already been waiting. He checked the monitor once more; it continued to blink DELAYED, mocking him.

He fingered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Nicotine would be good. It had been a full hour since the last one; surely even Wilson could forgive that. And at least it would give him something to do, rather than stand around here looking like a moron. He'd gotten to recognize all the other faces of people waiting for this flight over the last hour. They all looked like morons. He'd mentally assigned identities to each one: worn-out wife waiting for hubby to come back from business trip; dumb girlfriend waiting starry-eyed for returning wayward boyfriend; over-zealous husband anxious not to let returning wifey drive herself home in the cold.

He wondered what they thought of him, why he might be there. He didn't like to think about that one. Frankly he had no fucking idea what Wilson was up to. It had been a month since their first kiss and the frantic handjob that had followed. They'd been tentatively advancing from there ever since, physically; exploring, groping, trying to find out what worked, what turned each of them on, what the other was comfortable with. What they hadn't done, at _all,_was talk about it.

He could easily wait outside instead of in here. Frost covered the ground when he exited through the sliding doors. It was getting chillier by the day; the icy wind carved through his light coat. He wished he'd worn his leather jacket. With a quick flick of the lighter, he lit a cigarette; _sorry, Wilson_. Wilson wouldn't say anything, of course; he'd know House would have been bored. He'd feel guilty about being the cause of the wait.

A voice crackled over the intercom. It was faint but House distantly heard the word _Montreal_. Thank fuck for that. He took a couple of drags on the cigarette, threw the butt on the ground, and went back inside. People were straggling through; House scanned the crowds of weary faces, searching.

Wilson was looking around, mouth in a comical little frown of concentration, backpack slung over his shoulder. House chose to observe Wilson until Wilson saw him. Wilson's face broke into an unguarded smile, that then faded a little as self-consciousness returned. House carefully maintained the scowl on his own face, jerking his chin for Wilson to join him. They bumped shoulders as they walked towards the parking ramp.

"Thanks for waiting," Wilson said, a little awkwardly, his gaze on the ground. "I thought you might have got fed up and gone home."

"I was about to," House grumbled, looking away. "Next time you go off for a dirty weekend, you can catch a cab. Or pay for airport parking."

"Well, I probably won't be going again for a while." Wilson opened the passenger door of House's car.

"She dumped you?" House feigned hopefulness as he sat down behind the wheel.

"No, but she'll be coming to visit me next time." Wilson fastened his seat belt. "Probably in a month or so. You'll get to meet her."

"Great." House turned the ignition and warm air blew into the car. "Because I'm just _so_ looking forward to meeting the fiancée of the man who gave me a blow job two days ago."

Wilson grimaced and glanced around.

"Oh, relax," House said irritably.

Wilson ran a hand over his face. "Give me a break, House. I've just had a crappy flight and I can't deal with this right now."

House glanced sideways at Wilson; Wilson's forehead was creased with fatigue. House didn't let his expression soften, but he didn't say anything else either.

Back at their house, House jerked the handbrake on and turned to look at Wilson, dozing gently, head nodding slightly. House leaned over and ran the flat of his fingernails across Wilson's face. Wilson stirred, mumbled under his breath, and nuzzled his cheek against House's hand. House arched his fingers over Wilson's temple, tangling them into his hair, and stroked down to cup the back of Wilson's neck. Wilson reached up to touch House's arm lightly, and ran a thumb down House's wrist. House closed his eyes at the feather light touch against his pulse.

They both lingered for a moment before Wilson sighed and opened the door.

Inside, Wilson headed into his room. He looked much better for his short nap and arrival home.

"You turned the heat on," Wilson said gratefully, dropping his bag on the couch.

"It was freezing last night." House stood in the doorway, still uncertain whether to stay or to head on upstairs to his own room. He leaned on the frame, eyes on Wilson, searching for clues.

Wilson nodded towards the couch. House came in, shut the door behind him and flopped down on the couch, stretching his body along the full length. Wilson headed for the bathroom, and returned a minute later, looking refreshed, with a slightly damp face and hair, rubbing a towel over his head to dry off. He was mussing up his hair; House felt an involuntary surge of desire. Wilson came and perched on the couch next to House, his hip nestling House's face. House looked up at Wilson, trying to question and express desire with his eyes; Wilson wordlessly slid down next to him. House shunted over slightly to give Wilson room to lie next to him, and then they kissed.

Since he'd discovered this, House could never get enough of it. Wilson's lips were warm, and soft; House fastened his mouth over Wilson's and sucked Wilson's lower lip, first gently, then harder. Wilson's face, so close, brushing against House's cheek, smelt faintly of soap, a familiar scent, Wilson's usual brand. No strange Canadian fiancée influences permeating; it was Wilson, just as he had been before he went away. House grasped at Wilson's shirt, bunching it up, running fingers up Wilson's chest, hearing Wilson's breathing quicken and then a gentle gasp as House reached downwards and ran a hand over Wilson's crotch. House kept his hand there, and Wilson moaned a little and rocked against House's palm. House closed his eyes and thought that this was as perfect as it could ever be; Wilson, cute and lithe and willing, and pliant under his touch.

"You," House muttered, almost under his breath, "are a fucking _slut."_

Wilson jolted a little under House's arm, and suddenly Wilson's cock was rock hard and straining beneath House's hand. And House felt his own cock respond in kind; he hissed through his teeth, then scrabbled to wriggle out his pants and boxers, Wilson doing the same. And then House felt Wilson's cock rub against his own, softly, and then frantically, and the sensation of Wilson's shaft rubbing up against the tip of his own cock was just _all too fucking much_, and he came with a shout that was much too loud, and with a final grinding motion Wilson came too, burying his head in House's chest to muffle his own agonized cry.

The two of them lay on the couch together, breathing heavily.

House reflected through the haze that it looked like Wilson's Canadian trip hadn't changed anything after all.

* * *

"Hey." Wilson dropped into the chair opposite House and put his lunch tray down.

"Hey." House looked up. "Fries. How did you know?"

"Just a lucky guess." Wilson rolled his eyes as House helped himself to a handful.

House slid his foot forward a little under the table and rested it casually against Wilson's. Wilson's face didn't change, but he pressed lightly back as he started to eat. House crunched on fat and salt, feeling the texture of Wilson's leather shoe against his own sneaker, and watched Wilson slide a fork into his mouth. House felt a stirring in his groin. He wondered how on earth it had come to this, that he couldn't watch James Wilson eat his lunch without getting a hard-on. They'd been furtively pushing the boundaries of personal space in public for a while now: House certainly got a thrill from it, and he was sure Wilson did too.

They'd spent many hours talking. About TV, sport, music, film. Whether the head of OB-GYN really was having an affair with her (female) secretary. How to remember the names of all the bones in the human hand. In fact, they talked about anything at all except what was happening between the two of them. And if the conversation threatened to veer in that direction, they started necking instead. Not that House minded this, as necking with Wilson had become his favorite pastime, while talking about _feelings_ ranked down there somewhere near talking to his father. But despite this, House's desire to know what the hell Wilson thought he was doing was starting to overcome his aversion to asking about it. House's curiosity was like an itch, that had to be scratched. No time like the present.

"Satisfy my curiosity," House said abruptly. "You told me once that you tell your fiancée when you cheat on her. I can't help but wonder if you've told her about your latest piece on the side." He tapped his own chest.

Two bright spots of color appeared on Wilson's cheeks and he glanced sideways. "House, why ask me this, why here, why now?"

House shrugged. "To maximize the chance of you actually replying without making a scene."

Wilson closed his eyes. "No, I haven't told her, and I'm not going to."

House hesitated. "So you're just going to go on with her, still engaged, planning your wedding?"

Wilson looked up at House, then sat back in his chair, grasping the edge of the table. His legs were brushing right up against House's. "I can live with that."

_Really._

"If you can," Wilson added.

House stared at Wilson. So this was the deal. James Wilson, always full of surprises. Wanting to have his cake and eat it. And he'd passed the ball over to House; fucking great.

House thought about it for a few seconds. Did he _really_ want to dig his heels in here, say it's her or me, make Wilson choose? No, he didn't. For a start, he probably wouldn't get the blowjob he was hoping for this evening. Then they'd have to talk about it, which would be hideous and embarrassing; House had little idea what he'd say and even less inclination to say it. And at the end of it all, so what if Wilson still had his fiancée? She was in Canada, it wasn't like he had to put up with her going _oochy-coochy-coo_ with Wilson every day.

Wilson met House's gaze steadily. House could see worry churning in those brown eyes though, and knew Wilson really wasn't sure what House was going to say.

"I can live with that," House said carefully. "But if I were _you,_ I wouldn't. Be able to live with it, I mean."

Wilson's eyelids flickered; relief.

"That's my call," Wilson said evenly. "Can we stop talking about this now?"

"With pleasure." House drained the rest of Wilson's Coke. Wilson's leg was still brushing his own; House twitched a knee slightly to bump against Wilson's thigh, then pushed his chair back. "Have to go. Nose to the grindstone, us junior doctors, not like you student layabouts."

"You doing the late shift tonight?" Wilson asked, offhand, as House stood up. House nodded. Wilson went on, "Drop by my room when you're back. I won't be asleep."

House's eyes glittered. "I'll wake you if you are."

* * *

Wilson was munching breakfast cereal one morning, when House came into the kitchen wearing just a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Wilson wasn't complaining at the sight; House had strong, toned shoulders and legs from all the running and lacrosse he did. He was obviously fresh out of the shower; his hair was damp and plastered to his forehead. Too early in the morning to have these sort of thoughts, Wilson mentally scolded himself.

"Morning," Wilson greeted House. "I was wondering if you wanted to go to the movies tonight? That zombie flick has a late night showing."

"No can do," House said briskly, opening the fridge. He crouched down to look inside. Wilson watched House's right leg bend and flex close to him, and admired the robust, muscled thigh. "Gotta date. Do you think this is still edible?" He produced half an egg salad sandwich and peered closely at it.

"I doubt it." Wilson blinked. "You've got a date? With who?"

"I think its only been in here since yesterday," House picked back an edge of cling film and sniffed.

"It's not your sandwich, then," Wilson couldn't help but observe. He remembered seeing House in conversation with someone two days ago and realization dawned. "With that new nurse in orthopedics? The redhead?"

"It is now." House pulled back the film and took a bite. Through a mouthful of sandwich he added, "That's right."

Wilson ate another spoonful of Cheerios which might as well have been sawdust for all he tasted it. House peered at him, blue eyes sparkling with interest and amusement.

"Well...have a good time," Wilson eventually managed to say. "Um—is it a first date?"

"Third." House stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. "We can do the zombie flick this weekend?"

"Sure," Wilson said, dazed, and House strode out of the kitchen.

Alone, Wilson sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes, not eating, trying to get used to this new information. So House had a date. So what? Just because they were...close, and getting more so, he didn't expect House not to date. It wasn't like he was in any position to object. After all, _he_ was engaged to be married. House had even met Cath, now. She had come down from Canada the previous weekend, and the three of them had met for a drink. Cath had been very lukewarm about House afterwards, and House downright scornful about Cath. Not that Wilson had expected or particularly wanted them to get along like a house on fire, but he'd hoped they wouldn't be quite so antagonistic.

All that day Wilson went around with a hollow feeling in his stomach. Back in his room that evening, he sat down and tried without success to do some work. It was useless; his mind kept flitting from basic anatomy to House's anatomy; thinking of the muscled thigh he'd seen in the kitchen that morning, wondering if the redhead was admiring it too. He shouldn't care. He really shouldn't be thinking about this. Eventually he gave up on his textbook and went to bed. But he couldn't sleep; his room was next to the front door and periodically he would hear it open, and wonder if it was House coming home, and if so whether he was alone or not. Each time, he decided it wasn't House's footstep; and this only started him on the train of thought that perhaps House had gone back to her place instead...

He woke up to find it was morning and he must have gone to sleep after all. He went to take a shower, and failed to bump into House on the stairs or in the kitchen. He thought about going up to the attic room and knocking, but the thought that the redhead might be there filled him with nausea; he didn't want to risk it. Dammit, he had to do better than this.

By the time Wilson had also failed to meet House at lunchtime that day, he was in a state of paranoid apprehension. Where the fuck was House? Rationally he knew this was silly—it wasn't in the least bit unusual not to see House for this amount of time—but his rationality was having trouble being heard over his nervous worry.

He caught a lucky break mid-afternoon; he bumped into one of House's colleagues on his way out of a lecture, and asked if House was around.

"Yeah—but he was going somewhere. I just saw him heading to the car park."

"Thanks." Wilson headed straight for the hospital car park—and there he was! Wilson felt a rush of relieved exhilaration. "House!" he called, waved, and ran to catch up with him.

House paused, one hand on his motorcycle. He was wearing his biking leathers; a jacket which hung a little large on him and close fitting black pants. Wilson arrived next to him, panting slightly.

"Just wondered how your date went last night," Wilson said, as casually as he could while trying to catch his breath. "With the redhead."

House snorted in amusement. "You really want to know?"

"Not the gory details, no. Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts."

"I have to go somewhere." House glanced at his watch. "Come with me and I'll tell you when we get there."

Wilson eyed the motorcycle doubtfully. "House, you know I don't like that thing."

"Oh come on. You can't turn down your only chance to put your arms round me and press your crotch against my ass in public." House tossed Wilson the helmet and straddled the bike. "Get on."

Wilson hesitated, then put the helmet on and climbed onto the bike gingerly. "Where—"

House revved the engine, and Wilson forgot his question as he clutched at House's waist. House roared away, and Wilson hung on for dear life. After a few initial minutes of terror Wilson relaxed slightly, and began to take some pleasure in the rush of cold air whizzing past and House's warm body right in front of him. He leaned his face into House's back, breathing in the smell of leather and sweat and oil.

Ten minutes later they arrived at a house Wilson had never seen before. House parked the bike, and asked over his shoulder, "You still alive back there?"

"Yes, I'm OK." Wilson got off the bike and wobbled slightly on his feet. "My hands are freezing though."

"You need gloves to ride a bike, really." House took one of Wilson's hands, peeled off one of one his own gloves, and slid it gently onto Wilson's hand. Wilson wriggled his fingers around inside; it was a little too big for him and felt warm and sweaty. He looked up at House's face, and found House's eyes dipped, focused on Wilson's hand. House then reached out and took Wilson's other hand. He slid his second glove off and onto Wilson's hand in a smooth motion; Wilson's fingers tingled as they passed through House's, and he felt House's grip on his wrist linger a little longer than necessary. Wilson traced his newly-gloved thumb over House's palm. House shivered slightly, and dropped Wilson's hand.

House turned and strode up the garden path, dug a bunch of keys out of his pocket which Wilson didn't recognize, and tried two before finding the right one.

"House, where are we?" Wilson said, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he followed House in. The house was cold and echoey. "This isn't _her_ house, is it?"

"No, it's not. It's my patient's house." House wandered into a study and started to open drawers.

"Your patient?" Wilson said, aghast. "Does he know you're here?"

"No. I've come to find his passport." House found a file and opened it. "Stupid bastard insists he's never left the country. This is a blatant lie given his symptoms and I need to find out where he's been. So I borrowed his keys while he was asleep."

Wilson closed his eyes for a moment. "So I guess we've just broken and entered." He opened his eyes and glared at House. "I suppose I should be grateful you just gave me your gloves. At least they won't find my fingerprints when we get arrested and carted off to jail."

"We're not going to break anything or take anything. Except his passport." House abandoned the file and opened another drawer. "Didn't you want to know about my date?"

"Uh, yes," Wilson said, immediately distracted. As House had intended, Wilson realized later.

"We had a fight," House said, flipping through papers. "She found out I'd seen her personnel file. Turned out she wasn't very happy about it."

Wilson was rendered speechless for a moment. House carried on poking around the study. Eventually Wilson said, in a monotone, "You stole her personnel file."

"Just borrowed it to look at. I wondered why she'd left her last job, which was a better job, to come here. Aha!" House produced a passport from a folder. He flicked through it. "I knew he was a lying bastard." He popped the passport into his inside jacket pocket and put the folder back in the drawer.

"But how did you get her file?" Wilson asked.

"You know me. Always stay on the right side of the hospital janitors." House shut the drawer. "I play poker with the one who sweeps the record room in the basement. He's usually very obliging."

"You do this often?" Wilson asked, unbelieving.

"When I want to know about someone." House looked at Wilson. "Mr. James Evan Wilson."

"You stole _my_ file?" Wilson's voice went peculiarly high-pitched and two spots of color appeared on his cheeks. His mind briefly raced through what might be in it. Nothing House didn't know, surely.

"I put it back after I read it!" House said with fake indignation. "Damn boring read it was, too."

Wilson threw up his hands and said angrily, "House, you are fucked up. Remind me why on earth I hang out with you."

House smirked, pretended to think, and suggested, "Because you like sucking my cock?"

Wilson laughed rather hollowly, and retorted, "If only it were that simple." His outrage moved him to say more than he might have done otherwise. "And if only you'd reciprocate more than once in a blue moon."

House's eyes widened and he stepped forward so he was within a few inches of Wilson. "Oh yeah? You only have to ask."

He curled a hand round the back of Wilson's neck and slid his fingers down inside Wilson's shirt collar. Wilson shut his eyes as House moved in for the kiss. Wilson felt the tension he'd had in his chest all day start to ease as House's mouth met his own. House's stubble prickled as it rubbed against his own chin; Wilson pushed back, feeling the burn, wanting it, wanting more. House propelled him backwards a couple of paces to the desk chair, and pushed him down into a sitting position. Wilson let out a small _oof _as he sank down into the large leather chair. House then reached down for Wilson's belt buckle.

"Uh, hang on." Wilson opened his eyes, suddenly panicking. He looked down at House, who was now kneeling in front of him. "House, for goodness sake. We're in your patient's house!"

"And he's in no state to come home unexpectedly in the next hour or so," House finished undoing Wilson's belt and slid a hand inside his pants. Wilson sucked in his breath sharply as House hooked a hand around his cock. He was already semi-hard, but at the sensation of House's fingers, cool, deft, he became fully erect almost immediately.

"_Fucking_—_hell_—" Wilson gasped, as House dipped his head and took Wilson's cock into his mouth. Wilson leaned right back and grasped the arms of the chair. Just the sight of House's head bobbing up and down between his legs, in this strange and unfamiliar room, gave him the most incredible rush; and on top of that, the feel of House's tongue on his cock, first skimming lightly, then licking and then sucking—Wilson came within a couple of minutes. It was like a thunderbolt exploding in his head, temporarily blinding and deafening him, rendering him unaware of anything, except House's throat expanding and contracting as he gagged and swallowed in turn.

Wilson sat panting for a moment, unable to move. When the power of speech and movement returned, he moved a hand to touch House's head and mumbled, "You—want—?"

"Nah." House was wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. "I got some just last night."

"Oh." Wilson tried to consider this through his post-orgasmic haze. "Before or after your fight?"

"After."

Wilson closed his eyes and digested this, then asked tentatively, "You seeing her again?"

"Probably," House said, sitting back on the floor. He tweaked an eyebrow and asked in a tone laced with irony, "Can _you_ live with that?"

Wilson went for the easy answer. "If you carry on doing stuff like this."

House snorted with laughter. Wilson managed a weak grin.

* * *

House lay on his back on Wilson's couch and pretended to read the TV Guide, watching as Wilson wandered around his room, collecting the final few odds and ends, filling a small box with last minute items.

Wilson's six months in the shared house had finally ended, and he was moving into an apartment with his fiancée, who was arriving from Canada tomorrow. House frowned at the magazine, but his eyes skated past the words and focused on the ceiling above. He stared up at a small cobweb, willing himself to block out the small core of despair inside him, angry with himself for not being able to do so. He couldn't believe how much he minded that Wilson was moving out. That he wouldn't bump into Wilson in the kitchen or the stairs in the morning; that they wouldn't stagger home together late and drunk any more, and collapse in Wilson's room because they couldn't be bothered to climb all the way up to House's room. The idea that Wilson would not only be living somewhere else, but with someone else, made House's stomach clench and his chest tighten.

Wilson came up, took the TV Guide out of House's hands, dropped it in the last box, and snapped tape across the top.

"OK, I'm finished," Wilson announced. He looked at House. House looked up at the cobweb again, keeping his face as blank as possible. Wilson narrowed his eyes, and came and perched on the couch where House was lying. House moved over slightly to make room for him.

"So, you may have to start buying your own Cheerios," Wilson said lightly.

House smiled fleetingly.

"I'll only be down the road," Wilson added. "You know you can pop in anytime."

"Yeah, I'm sure your fiancée will love that," House snorted.

"I'm moving out, its no big deal." Wilson tried to be reassuring. "Nothing has to change."

House shut his eyes briefly, then opened them and glared at Wilson. "Wilson, of course things have to change. You're moving on. You're about to start living with the woman you're going to marry and spend the rest of your life with, right? You should have higher priorities than worrying about m—whether I've got Cheerios or not. Hey, I'll get used to it." His tone became tinged with bitterness. "Everybody leaves in the end, after all."

Wilson frowned at this. "No they don't."

"Yes they do. It's a fact. Stuff changes. People move on, move house, get new jobs, find someone else. They leave. Everybody leaves." House was at his most cynical.

"What, is this a new House mantra?" Wilson's voice rose. "Everybody lies _and_ everybody leaves?"

House shrugged. "Pretty much."

Wilson said carefully, "I'm not leaving you."

"Don't be an idiot— " House began, but Wilson cut him off.

"House, get a grip, and stop wallowing in self-pity. And don't you _dare_ push me away like this. I'm moving out, but I'm not leaving you, and nor am I going to let you use this as some pathetic excuse for leaving _me_."

Taken aback, House stared up at Wilson. Wilson glared back at him.

"Well, glad we got that sorted," House said, a trifle defensively, feeling his way as he spoke, and Wilson interrupted him again.

"Actually, House, there's something I wanted to ask you."

House could not imagine what on earth this was going to be. He waited.

Wilson hesitated, fidgeted with his fingers, then plunged on.

"I was wondering if you would be my best man."

House was amazed. "I thought your brother was going to be your best man?"

"He assumes so. But I'd rather have you." Wilson looked pleadingly at him. "I know its not your kind of thing, and I guess it's probably a bit weird, but I'd really..."

But House wasn't listening any more, having discovered an unexpected emotion inside himself which he feared would best be described as _warm and fuzzy_, and quite different to the _warm and fuzzy _feeling he occasionally allowed himself to indulge in after sex. House had never given a moment's thought to being anyone's best man before. It necessitated having a friend first, after all. And now here he was, and Wilson—popular, nice James Wilson who everybody liked—was effectively telling him he was his best friend.

Wilson looked at House uncertainly, waiting for a reaction. House realized with some amusement that Wilson was afraid House might say no.

House firmly mentally fenced off the _warm and fuzzy_ feeling behind high walls, so there was no danger of Wilson glimpsing it, then pulled himself into a sitting position, and frowned thoughtfully.

"Let me see..." House mused. "The best man has to organize the bachelor party, right? I can do that. Strippers, of course."

Wilson started to look worried.

"And look after the ring. Not losing it, however extreme the bachelor party experience may have been. Tarring and feathering, all that sort of thing."

"Um, House—" Wilson started to say, but this time House cut him off.

"And the best man has to make a speech, right? About how we know each other and what a great guy you are, with a few meaty anecdotes thrown in about your sex life."

Now Wilson looked panicked.

House beamed. "Of course I'll do it."

Wilson's shoulders sagged. "House, you—" He reached out and grasped House's arm. "You _bastard_." He recovered quickly. "I reserve the right to read your speech beforehand and veto anything that might get me divorced before I even start."  
_  
_House smirked. "No way. You'll just have to trust me." Another thought occurred to him. "Hey, doesn't the best man also get to sleep with the chief bridesmaid?"

That made Wilson laugh. "The maid of honor? I don't think that's part of the formal duties."

"No," House replied, and added mischievously, "But I guess getting off with the groom isn't either."

"House, you'll be the death of me," Wilson said, rolling his eyes and smiling at the same time. Then Wilson reached into the pocket of his jeans and extracted a small bunch of keys—the keys to his new apartment. He took one off the ring and handed it to House.

"Save you having to steal mine and copy it," he said lightly.

Touched, House took the key. They locked eyes for a moment, then Wilson leaned down and kissed House hard on the mouth.

END OF PART 3. TBC

A/N: Next part: Wilson's wedding #1. House gives Wilson a send-off to remember.

You can read about House's first meeting with the fiancée, Catherine, in a separate fic - When House Met the Wilson Wives.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 4  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta**: the always wonderful triedunture  
**A/N: **Part 4 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.

**Summary:** Wilson's wedding #1. House gives Wilson a send-off to remember.  
**  
****Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 4**

Wilson stared into the mirror and marveled at the sight of himself, dressed up in a sharp gray tux with long coat tails and a cravat round his neck. The cravat was a rich burgundy color, which he knew had been made to match the bridesmaid dresses; Cath had picked out everything very carefully, of course, to fit her grand wedding plans. The suits for himself and House, as the best man, had each been made to measure. He could see that his pants legs were a little long still, though. They'd just come in to the shop for a final fitting; he could get that fixed.

He looked at his reflection and saw a model bridegroom, young and looking forward to his approaching marriage and bright future.

He mentally played a potential conversation he'd been dwelling on a lot recently: _honey, the wedding's off. Sorry but I just can't go through with this... __  
_  
_But why? Is it another woman?_

_Um, no actually, I can't seem to stop fooling around with my best man_.

Wilson grimaced and watched his nose crinkle up in the mirror. He couldn't do it. Couldn't have that conversation. Couldn't face the anguish, the disappointment, the anger, the revulsion. Couldn't envisage what they'd tell her parents. Or his parents. Or the world, actually. But especially her parents, after the small fortune they'd already spent on this wedding. And never mind the money, the really important thing was the amount of energy and creativity and emotion that Cath had put into planning it all. She so needed this to work out. He couldn't screw that up.

And anyway, there was no point. After all, this stuff with House would end, eventually. There was no _way_ they could keep on finding each other this hot all the time. It was because it was all so new, surely. Wasn't it always that way with someone at first, couldn't keep your hands off each other? It would fade, hopefully amicably, and he wouldn't have ruined his life in the process.

And in the meantime, at least he wasn't cheating on her with other women any more. That actually felt like progress! Hey, she should actually be grateful to House. If she knew...

Wilson fiddled with his cuff links for a moment, unsure if he had them on the right way, then stepped out of the dressing room.

House was standing there in the dressing room, leaning nonchalantly against a wall. Despite being dressed the same as Wilson, House made the clothes look completely different; the stubble and the stance made the tux tails all more casual somehow, more scruffy. He was rough and raw in contrast to Wilson's clean cut.

House saw Wilson and his eyes widened a fraction. "Fuck me, poster boy."

"Maybe later," Wilson deadpanned. He looked up and down at House. House was positively smoldering. "Your suit looks, um, like a good fit." It was currently fitting particularly well around the groin area.

"Snug as a bug in a rug." House tugged at the lapel of his jacket. "How much are these things costing your future in-laws?"

"I have no idea. Too much, probably." Wilson didn't want to think about it. On the one hand, he was a debt-stricken med student who much appreciated that the bride's family wanted to foot the bill for the wedding of their only daughter. But on the other hand, the lack of purchasing power left him feeling that all arrangements were kind of out of his hands.

He stepped towards House, still fiddling with the cuff links. "Are these things supposed to go on this way?"

House reached out and took Wilson's wrist in his hand. Wilson felt warm rough skin and a thudding pulse. House undid the cuff link, turned it around and fastened it up again. Wilson squirmed a little as House's fingernails stroked the inside of his wrist. It felt as if House was stroking somewhere a lot more intimate.

House then reached upwards and straightened Wilson's cravat a little, and Wilson felt another pulse thumping away, this one in his neck. House's hands brushed against his jawline, briefly cupping his chin, then moved to arch inside the cravat.

"Can we wear these things home?" House asked.

"No."

"Shame." House reached out and hooked a finger in one of Wilson's belt loops, tugging Wilson towards him a fraction. "I can just imagine--"

"Excuse me, gentlemen, how is the fit?" Suddenly a shop assistant was right beside them. House let go of Wilson's belt loop and Wilson stepped back a pace, embarrassed.

"Um, these pants need a bit of shortening," Wilson said hastily, and a discussion and measurements as to how much shorter took place. House disappeared into a dressing room to get changed.

The shop assistant left, and Wilson stepped back into his dressing room to get changed himself.

He had barely shrugged the jacket off his shoulders when the curtain was whisked aside, and House stepped inside. The curtain was briskly drawn shut again, and then House was on him. Mouth reaching, hands groping, body pressing up against his own. House was back in his street clothes now, jeans and T-shirt, in contrast to Wilson's smart gray pants and dress shirt, and Wilson's first coherent thought was _I can't get these clothes dirty_! Followed by _what the fuck are we doing? This is a dressing room in a shop for fuck's sake... _and then as House stripped him rapidly, coherent thought vanished completely.

House brought him off swiftly with a couple of well-timed jerks, and Wilson just stayed on his feet long enough to return the favor.

* * *

House sat at the table and watched Wilson at the bar, getting them drinks. They'd each had several beers and whiskey chasers already that evening, but House wasn't about to stop just yet; he was building up Dutch courage for a conversation he didn't want to have.

Wilson arrived back at the table with two bottles. House grabbed one and drank deeply. Time to take the plunge.

"Wilson," House said, putting the bottle down. It hit the table top with a _thud_. "If I didn't know you were getting married, I might have thought you'd been diagnosed with a terminal disease."

"What do you mean?" Wilson curled his hand around his own bottle.

House picked up the bottle again and took another swig of beer to fortify himself. "Your wedding is only a month away, but you're not obviously looking forward to it. Every day the plans get more and more elaborate, your fiancée is spending every minute of her free time on it, but you don't seem to have any say in what actually happens."

"So?" Wilson drank from his own bottle of beer.

"So... just at a time when you should be with _her_, you seem to be spending more and more time with _me_." House glared at Wilson, annoyed being forced to explain in such detail. "Not that _I _care. But I'd have thought _she_ might."

House felt he'd coped very well since Wilson had moved out of the shared house. However, he had realized recently this was because Wilson still seemed to be there a lot. This hadn't been the case at first; Wilson had been preoccupied with setting up his new home with Catherine for the first month or so. She was new to New York, rather bewildered by it all, and struggling with a new job, working for an event planning company. She liked the work but didn't like her boss, and it was all very difficult, apparently. House wasn't interested enough to follow the details. What he did grasp was that as things settled down for her, Wilson seemed to have more time to spend with House.

"That's very thoughtful of you," Wilson said sarcastically. "Considering you don't give a damn about her."

House shook his head in exasperation. "I'm just fed up with having to explain to her on the phone that you've drunk too much, crashed out on my couch and won't be coming home that evening." He dropped his voice. "Especially when it's actually true and not even an excuse."

Wilson put the bottle down on the table and leaned forward. "House, she's much better off planning this wedding without me getting in the way. If I'm around, things seem to get screwed up. I have to get away from the stress of it."

House took a deep breath, psyched himself up, and asked the killer question. "Wilson, are you sure you should be getting married in the first place?"

"It's not _marriage _that's the problem, it's the damn _wedding,"_ Wilson answered, much too quickly. "It means so much to her--I just have to let her get on with it and do what she wants to do. Once it's all over, everything will be fine."

He looked at House, and waved an accusing finger. House recognized a change of subject coming up.

"If you really want to be helpful, you could try not pissing her off every time we meet," Wilson said.

House met Wilson's gaze innocently; as far as he was concerned, Wilson's silly fiancée had it coming, with such a stupid job. She had a hard time discerning when House was stringing her along, and worse, she was nervous around him. House could scent the weakness, smell the blood in the air, and couldn't resist going in for the kill. She was very young--couldn't even drink legally yet, for Chrissake--and House played up the older best friend, man of the world thing to the hilt. Wilson (who, fresh-faced and twenty-two, always got carded at bars, to House's continued amusement) could glare all he wanted. Wilson had it coming to him too, anyway. Trying to get the three of them to socialize together--honestly.

"Well, I'm hurt," House protested, wide-eyed. "I thought we got on so well."

"Stop fucking around, House," Wilson's patience was thinner than House had realized. Must be the alcohol. House shrugged and dropped the pretense.

"Oh come on, Wilson, this is ridiculous." He gulped beer. "I don't know why you entertain this fantasy that you and me and her can go out and have a nice time together. She doesn't like me and I don't like her. And what the fuck do you see in her? She's so...wet behind the ears. Drippier than those cheerleaders frolicking in the fountain in that video we saw last night."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House, get used to it. I'm going to marry her."

"Yeah, and it's going to be the bestest planned wedding ever!"

"I love her."

"Of course you do." House drained his bottle and dropped his voice. "That's why you sleep with other women and fool around with me."

"House!" Wilson hissed furiously.

But House was on a roll now and wouldn't be stopped. He put the bottle down and pointed at Wilson. "Yes, you love her, but for a bunch of crap reasons. You're marrying her because she needs you to help her fulfill her childhood dream wedding that she so desperately wants. And because you want to have that conventional family life with a respectable girl who your parents like. God knows why."

"This is _my_ life, _my_ girlfriend, and _you _can fuck--right--off." Wilson banged down his own empty bottle and stood up to go to the bar. He swayed heavily on his feet.

House looked at him apprehensively and said as in as light a tone as he could manage, "Wilson, you know you're a lightweight. Another beer and whiskey is a bad fucking idea."

Wilson looked at House in annoyance. "House, do I lecture you when you've been out smoking dope all night?"

"Well, actually you do," House couldn't help saying.

"And what do you tell me to do then?"

House knew the answer was _fuck off and mind your own business. _

"All right_,_ you drink yourself into oblivion. I'm going home." House stood up, grabbed his jacket, and left the bar. He didn't look back.

Once outside, House hesitated, stopped and breathed in the cold night air. He stood for a minute, letting his head clear, then went back inside.

Wilson was standing at the bar. House didn't approach, but stood looking for a moment across the room, willing Wilson to look up; and then Wilson did look up and saw him. House watched Wilson hesitate, then he walked across the room towards House. House stepped outside, and Wilson joined him.

Wilson looked at House and waited, his arms folded.

House nodded. "Come over and see me tomorrow night. I'll get in some food and we can watch a video."

Wilson's eyebrows raised, recognizing this as tantamount to an apology. House thought Wilson left him hanging in the air for a few more seconds than perhaps was necessary.

"OK," Wilson said, graciously accepting the apology. "Cheerleaders in the fountain part 2?"

House grinned. "Not sure if there is one, but if there is, I'll get it."

Wilson nodded and turned to go. "Night, House."

"Night, Wilson," House called after him.

* * *

A week before the wedding, House was lounging at home watching TV when there was a knock at the door. It was Catherine, brandishing a large envelope. House received her with barely concealed suspicion. She'd never visited him before, not on her own.

"So, how's the event planning job going?" House asked with an air of patently fake interest.

"Um, much better, thank-you," Cath said uncertainly.

"Bitch-of-a-boss behaving herself?" House chose to demonstrate amazing powers of recall this time. She looked flummoxed. Understandably so; after all, the last time they'd met he'd called her _Caroline_ and professed not to remember what she did for a living.

She shook her head slightly, and House saw her decide to ignore his remarks and get on with whatever the hell she'd come for.

"I want to give you the details of what you and James are to do in the run-up to the wedding," she explained.

Great. "Shouldn't you be giving this to your husband-to-be?" House demanded.

"James is very stressed about it all right now," she said defensively.

House supposed that as best man he couldn't simply abdicate all responsibility. He groaned. "Oh for God's sake. Gimme."

The wedding was taking place out on the west coast where her family lived. She explained that she was going out a few days in advance to oversee final arrangements, so it was up to House to make sure that he and Wilson caught the plane out the day before. "I fly out Tuesday. Your plane is Friday morning. Wedding is Saturday. It's all booked." She reached into the envelope and handed him a sheet with flight details and a detailed itinerary. "And here's a checklist of everything you need to remember."

House looked at the checklist. It was horribly long. The list of things to bring included the wedding outfits for both himself and Wilson (itemized down to cravats and cuff links), a suitcase of clothes to see Wilson through the honeymoon (also itemized), and the rings. He wondered whether to tell her _hey, let him bring his balls along with him_.

"That's some list," he restrained himself.

"I hope you'll both be in a suitable state to check it all carefully after the bachelor party." She looked worried.

At that moment House really despised her and her whole wedding which was screwing up Wilson's life, and had never been closer to telling her so. He bit his lip just in time. It would make no difference to get in an argument. She would just get upset, and Wilson would be angry. And nothing would change, anyway.

"Bachelor party is Wednesday, Thursday is recovery day, the whole day, loads of time. We'll be on the plane Friday, no problem." He went for reassuring, but she looked like she just didn't believe him. Perhaps she had more sense than he gave her credit for, or perhaps she was just learning. He switched to flippant. "Unless he ends up getting tarred and feathered, of course; that might take a few days to sort out."

* * *

The bachelor party was a huge event. As it was paid for out of the wedding budget, House spared no expense; he booked a club venue, stuck a ton of money behind the bar, splashed out on a live band, and hired strippers. Half the hospital came, and it was universally deemed to be a rip-roaring success.

The fly in the ointment for House was Wilson's brother Jonathan. Jonathan had initially not been sure if he could make it because of work, having to travel up to New York from New Jersey, but he showed on the night. He walked in late and hailed Wilson. "Little bro!"

House hadn't met Wilson's brother before. He'd met Wilson's parents, who'd taken a trip up to New York to see how their son had settled in at med school. They were delighted to find their son had made a friend, and House had made an effort to be halfway pleasant and get to know them a little. Mainly so as to take pleasure in confounding Wilson's expectations (the look on Wilson's face across the room...) but also because it was necessary to start a Wilson Family File in order to better understand what the hell went on in Wilson's head. They'd spoken fondly of Cath, whom they clearly adored, and House immediately started to get a handle on the reasons for Wilson's engagement.

But House hadn't met Wilson's brother, until now. House took one look at him, and promptly found that he disliked Jonathan on sight. Jonathan looked very like Wilson, a bit taller and darker. But House observed an arrogance to his expression that was quite absent in Wilson. Wilson greeted him warmly though, so House thought he would have to make an effort to get on with the guy. Crap.

It turned out that Jonathan had come at such short notice that he hadn't booked a hotel room for the night. Wilson promptly gave him the key to his own apartment and said, "Stay at my place. Cath's not there as she's already flown out, and I'll crash at House's tonight. Oh, you haven't met, have you? House, my brother Jonathan. Jon, this is Greg House, I've told you about him. My best friend and my best man." Wilson beamed.

Wilson had had a few drinks and was apparently oblivious to the fact that Jon was looking at House like he was dirt. House realized that the ill-feeling was mutual.

Later in the evening, House found himself in conversation alone with Jonathan, who by this time had also had a few drinks, and made it quite clear to House that he was pissed about not being best man.

"Glad to see James has found a _friend_," Jon said, his tone contemptuous. "So how long have you known him? Only since he came to Columbia, right? Less than a year."

House looked at Jonathan through narrowed eyes. Like that was even the slightest bit relevant.

"After all, James was best man at my own wedding," Jonathan brooded. "I always thought... when he got engaged, I would... I had a speech all planned... well, what can you say."

"Best man wins, I suppose," House couldn't resist saying.

Jonathan glared at him. House stared icily back. Jonathan broke eye contact first, and stomped away.

Late that night at the party, there was an unpleasant moment when House and Wilson were standing at the bar and Jonathan appeared next to them with a hooker; a leggy blonde with very red lips and darkly painted eyes.

"This is for you," Jon announced to his brother. "I'll pay, call it a wedding present. It's compulsory for the groom at a bachelor party, anyway."

"No thanks," Wilson said firmly. The hooker pouted a little. "No offense," he added to her.

"Oh, go on." Jonathan pushed him. "Last chance of fun and you pass up the chance to fuck a hot woman like this?"

House said sharply, "He's not interested, leave him alone!"

Jonathan glowered at House, then said, "Okay, forget it." He left with the hooker.

Wilson looked relieved, and House's evening improved considerably from that point on.

Thank God Wilson didn't have any other siblings; they'd probably all be fucked-up jerks.

Next day was hangover recovery day. They had crashed in House's room, House in his own bed and Wilson out on the couch with a bucket at his elbow. House woke not in too bad a shape, having deliberately stayed sober enough to ensure he could get Wilson back in one piece, but Wilson (who had been practically comatose by the end of the evening) woke up only to throw up, and spent the day hiding under the covers with a migraine, emerging periodically only to throw up again. By late afternoon he had recovered enough to go out with House for a greasy spoon breakfast, which helped.

That evening, with Wilson now almost fully functioning, they went to Wilson's apartment to get everything they had to bring on Cath's checklist. They found Jonathan had gone, but left traces of his night there with the hooker, including not one but two empty condom wrappers left prominently in the waste paper basket in the bedroom.

"Classy. Your brother is an asshole," House opined to Wilson. Wilson didn't argue, simply picked up the bin to empty it out. House pretended to help Wilson clean up and pack, while not doing very much at all except wander around and make occasional observations.

"After all," House said brightly, as Wilson dumped a set of sheets in the laundry basket, "we have to leave it all in a decent state, as next time you come back here, you'll be man and wife!"

Wilson suddenly froze on the spot, a look of terror abruptly appearing on his face.

* * *

Next day, House continued to assume the responsible best man and best friend role (which he was actually secretly rather enjoying) and made sure they were out promptly and on their flight as scheduled. Wilson got paler and paler the whole journey. They arrived at their hotel, where they were sharing a family suite for the night. House was to have it to himself the following night, as Wilson would be off on his honeymoon.

By the evening the hotel was swarming with friends and family members from both sides. Not including Cath, though; she was staying in a different hotel, the better to follow the custom of not seeing the groom before the wedding. Wilson initially tried to be sociable and make polite chit-chat with people, but House could see him getting more and more anxious, and finding making wedding small-talk more and more difficult.

"Room service and mini-bar?" House eventually suggested, and Wilson was obviously only too glad to go back to their suite.

Once on their own, Wilson continued to fret and fidget, unable to sit down or stand still for more than a minute at a time. House found he had no luck trying to calm Wilson down, and started to wish he had had the foresight to dose Wilson with something, diazepam perhaps (he wanted to restrict Wilson's intake from the mini-bar). In the absence of drugs, House successively suggested going out, staying in, eating, not eating, watching sport on TV, watching mindless movies, and even putting on the hotel subscription porn channel. "Free porn! We can pay for it on your fiancée's family tab! Let's hope they get itemized bills." Wilson was unenthusiastic about everything.

In the end House took a deep breath and said, "Wilson, are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Wilson, who was standing looking out of the window at that moment, turned and looked at House uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean get married. Is it what you actually want to do? Because if you don't, then for God's sake say so, and we'll just get the hell out of here right now." House caught Wilson's gaze and held it. "And fuck what everyone else thinks. Who gives a crap?"

Wilson laughed a little. "It is what I want to do, I'm just a bit... nervous about it all. But thanks. "

House shrugged: he'd given Wilson an out. He hadn't thought Wilson would take it, but by God House wanted to be able to turn around at a later date and say _I fucking told you so_.

"So what _do_ you want to do, now, I mean?" House asked, throwing his hands up. "On this, your last night as a free man?"

Wilson was silent for a moment, and then he said quietly but completely seriously, "I want you to fuck me."

House gaped, startled enough that he didn't know quite what to say. Somehow he hadn't quite anticipated this. Not tonight. Not the night before Wilson got married.

Eventually House said, playing for time, "You'll have to get me in the mood."

"So put the hotel porn on," Wilson said, deadpan.

House headed for the mini-bar first, then the TV.

After some necking and half an hour of not terribly hardcore porn, and several whiskey miniatures later, with Wilson squirming on his lap, House was sufficiently hard that fucking now seemed like an excellent idea. As he dropped Wilson's shirt onto the floor and reached for his belt buckle, House temporarily forgot what was to come, and simply basked in the moment. Wilson's skin under his palms, the muscles in his arms, smooth shoulders, hair light and silky as he breathed into Wilson's head. He licked Wilson's throat and watched Wilson shudder.

He stripped off Wilson's pants and then his own, sprawling back naked together on the couch, Wilson on top; House could feel Wilson's cock hard and slick and rubbing against his own.

Then he recalled what Wilson wanted to happen next, and apprehension crept over him. It seemed... so _major_, somehow. For fuck's sake, Wilson was getting married in the morning.

Wilson felt the hesitation and pulled back to look at him. "House?"

House took a firm metaphorical grip on himself and said blandly, "So, how'd'ya want to do this?"

Wilson closed his eyes, and said, "Face to face, so I can see you."

In all the previous year of increasing physical intimacy, they had not done it like that before. They'd done a lot of fooling around: handjobs, blowjobs, stuff that could be laughed off--not a lot of actual fucking. And when they had, they'd always fucked with one of them behind; hands and knees, horny, aggressive and pumping; or spooning; gentle, slow and almost casual. Never face to face; never seeing the other's expression, the other's eyes.

Suddenly House realized he was deep in Wilson fantasy-land. He couldn't believe it had taken him so long to work it out. And--equally surprising--House realized he was also right in the middle of one of his own fantasies too. And then he really was hard, and for the first time, he really, really wanted to do this.

Wilson had opened his eyes, and was looking at House uncertainly.

"You got it," House muttered in reply.

He saw Wilson's brown eyes liquefy and dissolve with desire; the most beautiful sight House had ever seen. House grasped Wilson's shoulders, and ran his hands over Wilson's back and down to his ass, feeling that perfect ass underneath his fingertips. Then he put a hand on Wilson's arm and tilted his chin, indicating he wanted to switch places: Wilson scrambled off House obediently. House raised himself with his arms and sat back on his knees. He looked down at Wilson, lying naked beneath him, looking appallingly young, wide-eyed and nursing a powerful erection. My God, House thought: _if she could see him now_...

Fingers first; that was the way to start. God only knows how Wilson came to have lube among the toiletries he was taking off on honeymoon; not for the first time, House failed to imagine Wilson and his fiancée having sex. Yes, Wilson liked the fingers, he loved the fingers, especially when used at the same time as having his cock grasped firmly in a fist and rubbed up and down, gently at first, then harder--_oh yeah_. Wilson moaning, head rolling from side to side, writhing against the cushions: House himself now breathless and feeling his own cock alert and straining.

House withdrew his fingers, breathed deeply, rolled on a condom, and pressed his own cock up against Wilson's; so close now--Wilson pushed back against him. House grasped Wilson's hips, adjusted the angle and pushed back against Wilson's ass, and then eased his way inside. Wilson let out a strangled sound which House barely heard; his hearing had dulled compared to his sense of sight--he could see Wilson's face, contorted in a grimace that looked one part agony to nine parts searing ecstasy. He could watch Wilson's lips, reddened and parted and gasping; see Wilson's eyes, closed momentarily, but now open and dark and locked on House, on whatever ridiculous expression he himself was wearing. House was overwhelmed by the sight and by the sensation of his cock sliding back and forth inside Wilson's ass, fucking tight as ever. Oh God, he wasn't going to last long like this--but then, Wilson, squirming beneath him, didn't look like he would either.

With a cry of _Fucking hell, Christ, Wilson!,_ House came, and his final thrust brought Wilson to a strangled climax too.

Afterwards, collapsed on the couch, House remarked, "Wilson, you never cease to surprise me."

"That's why you love me," Wilson mumbled.

House dared not reply to that. Instead he thought, with not a little pride, that Wilson's wedding night tomorrow night would have a _lot_ to live up to.

They slept beside each other for a bit, then watched some TV. House found, to his surprise, that Wilson now seemed relaxed about the wedding for the first time in months.

"So that's what it took to calm you down, getting fucked in the ass," House said sleepily. "Have to remember that one."

* * *

Next day, the wedding went by in a blur but without a hitch. House remembered almost nothing about it afterwards, except that it seemed totally unreal and had gone smoothly, Cath's event planning having obviously left nothing to chance. He discovered later that Wilson remembered almost nothing about it either. Still, there was a video being filmed of it that he could always watch.

The reception was held at the hotel, and this was completely different: full of bright colors, sounds and sensations that stimulated House's senses and stuck in his head. Lots of people: Wilson the center of attention and House floating around on the periphery. House behaved himself perfectly, swanning around in the tux tails, exchanging a few polite words with Wilson's parents, posing for photographs.

He got bored while the bride and groom were being photographed from every conceivable angle, and wandered outside for some air. There he found one of the bridesmaids, resplendent in burgundy netting stretched far too tightly around her breasts, dragging heavily on a cigarette. She looked at him through nicotine-sated eyes.

"Hey, Greg," she said, and he dimly recognized her as the chief bridesmaid, the maid-of-honor. An old schoolfriend of Cath's.

She offered the pack to him, and House, an occasional smoker, decided a cigarette sounded rather pleasant right now, actually. He plucked one out, not bothering to avert his eyes from her generous bosom just a few inches away, and she held her own cigarette out to him as a light.

He pressed the ends of the two cigarettes together, and felt as he did so as if this was a curiously intimate thing to do. Even though it wasn't, at all.

"I've been gasping for this for the last hour," she said, taking her cigarette back and having another puff. Her voice was a little husky and had a very faint Southern twang to it. "How they doing in there?"

"Still snap-happy." House looked at the cigarette between his fingers and breathed in tar. He should do this more often. He rarely smoked; Wilson hated it, not that that was the only reason... but now Wilson was married (and God that was a strange thing to think), presumably he wouldn't be around so much from now on to nag House about it. Presumably he wouldn't be around as much, period.

He noticed the bridesmaid seemed to be jutting out her chest even more now so than a minute ago. "Careful, you might drop ash down there," he remarked.

She grinned at him, not offended. "They're too tightly squeezed together to lose anything between."

House grinned back, allowing himself a slight leer. "It's a good fit, that dress."

She flicked ash in his direction. "Glad someone appreciates it."

They were interrupted by a cry summonsing the _best man and bridesmaids_ to be photographed. Cigarettes ground out underfoot, they went inside together. House joined the group assembling in front of the camera, standing next to Wilson. He leaned an elbow on Wilson's shoulder.

"Hey, House," Wilson said cheerfully. "Having fun with Eloise?"

Ah, that was her name. "Yup. Or woman with ridiculously large breasts, as I call her."

Wilson looked at him with a wink. "Ellie asked Cath who you were earlier on. Asked who the bum with the beard was."

"Really?" House had shaved that morning, but somehow the stubble still showed through. Story of his life.

"No. She asked who the tall handsome guy with the stubble was. Said you looked _dangerous_, which I think was supposed to be a good thing. Cath said you _were_ dangerous. I don't think _she_ meant it as a good thing."

"Isn't it part of the duties of the best man to get off with the bridesmaids?" House pondered.

"Yeah. All of them," Wilson said, deadpan. "At the same time."

There were no less than six bridesmaids, clustering around them for the photos. However, five of them were under ten years old.

House snorted in amusement. "I might just get arrested."

"Dang." Wilson smiled for the camera.

After the photos came the food, and then the speeches. House's best man speech was witty, charming, and just a little bit risqué; overall, a model of its kind.

House later marveled that nothing went wrong until after the meal and the cutting of the cake.

It was at this point that House ran into Wilson's brother Jonathan properly for the first time that day. By this time House was quite nicely drunk, and greeted Jon with, "Hope you enjoyed your hooker. Nice touch leaving the condom wrappers in the waste paper basket."

Jonathan's face turned murderous. House realized too late that Jonathan's wife was standing right behind him and had heard every word. Before he could react, Jonathan roared, "You son of a bitch!" and punched House on the nose.

Caught off balance, House stumbled backwards, fell into a table and then onto the floor. People scattered in alarm.

Wilson was across the room in a flash. "House!"

House sat up, suddenly sober, and found his nose was bleeding heavily. Wilson grasped House's head and tilted it forward, and House started to bleed all over Wilson's shirt as well as his own. Wilson didn't seem to notice. Jonathan stormed off, his wife following. Wilson pulled House up on his feet and into an empty side room, where House sat with his head between his knees, clutching a pile of napkins to his nose, still merrily bleeding.

"What the hell happened?" Wilson asked, anxiously checking House's eyes and reflexes. Fortunately no damage had been done apart from the nosebleed.

House explained in a thick voice about his unfortunate remark to Jonathan.

Wilson sighed, and said, "He can be a bit free with his fists after he's had a few drinks."

House mentally filed this information away in the Wilson Family File for future reference.

Wilson's wife (_wife_, shit, that sounded strange) came in, looking anxious. "James, the car comes for us in fifteen minutes and you're going to have to change your shirt first. They take pictures of us as we leave."

"I'm looking after House," Wilson said shortly. "Call the car, delay it half an hour."

She hesitated. "The schedule--"

_"I'm looking after House," _Wilson snapped. "It won't make any difference if we're half an hour late!"

She went off without a word. House wondered if he should feel guilty. He didn't.

They sat in silence for a bit as the flow of blood gradually ebbed.

"Well, your speech was excellent and you didn't forget the ring," Wilson said eventually. "So I guess I can forgive you for insulting my brother, bleeding all over my shirt, and delaying the precious schedule by half an hour." He was smiling. House grinned back through a bloody napkin.

Eventually the bleeding stopped, and House felt recovered enough to go with Wilson up to their suite to change shirts. He felt a little faint and Wilson supported him as they walked. It wasn't strictly necessary, but House appreciated feeling Wilson's arm around him and leaned into him possibly a little more than he needed to.

Back in their suite, House took off his bloodstained shirt and, seeing Wilson gazing at his torso, said, "Now, now, don't look at me like that. You're a married man now."

"You're still my fuckbuddy," Wilson said, shrugging off his own shirt, and kissed him.

House was startled by the expression, and not altogether sure he liked it, but returned the kiss. They spent a few moments necking, bare chests pressed up against each other. Eventually Wilson reluctantly decided that the schedule required them to move on.

Wilson went off with his new wife on their honeymoon, sailing off in a big car into the night. House and the rest of the wedding party watched them go.

House then got rid of his hard-on by taking Eloise up to his suite and fucking her into the mattress. She went off afterwards back down to the reception, boasting of her conquest. House didn't care; in fact he figured it would do no harm at all, especially given that he and Wilson had spent the previous night closeted rather conspicuously in their suite.

END OF PART FOUR. TBC.

A/N: Next part: Wilson returns from his honeymoon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 5  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta**: the always splendid triedunture

**Summary:** Learning to compartmentalize: Wilson returns from his honeymoon.  
**A/N:** Part 5 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food - Part 5**

"Is this seat taken?" a woman asked, friendly, smiling.

Wilson looked up, startled. "Um--sorry, yes, it is. I'm waiting for my wife."

He watched her face close up at the word _wife_; she nodded.

"We're on our honeymoon," he added.

At that she took a step backwards, and said, "Sorry to have bothered you."

"No problem," Wilson said, and went back to staring into the distance, at the sea rippling gently on the shore outside the restaurant window.

_Wife_. How strange to have a wife, to be somebody's husband. It was odd; he'd been going out with Cath for a long time, lived with her for months, and hadn't expected it to feel very different now they were married. And yet, and yet...

A couple of days ago it had been Thursday night, and Cath always phoned her mother on Thursday nights. She'd remarked laughingly on how she felt she should call home, but Mom wouldn't expect it, what with them being on their honeymoon. Wilson had laughed too, and Cath had gone off to the hotel beauty parlor for a facial. And Wilson had sat and looked at the phone by the bedside, and thought that it was probably quite natural for a newly married young woman to feel like having a chat with her mother.

But it surely wasn't at all normal for her newly married husband to want to talk to his best friend--to want it _so fucking badly_ that it took a real effort of will not to pick up that phone. It was stupid and pathetic. And the only thing in the end that stopped him was that Wilson knew exactly what House would say if he did it. He could hear the very words in House's rasping tone. ("Wilson, what the fuck are you doing calling from your honeymoon? Go and have sex with your wife!")

And Wilson also felt extremely weird about the whole sex thing. Surely the sex he was getting at the moment--newly married honeymoon sex--really ought to be the best he'd ever had. But it was the night _before_ his wedding that was staying with him. And now, when up close and personal, he didn't see the brunette locks and pert breasts in front of him. He saw clear blue eyes and stubble, felt firm biceps and strong thighs, tasted whiskey with just a hint of tobacco...

He hadn't called.

But he had sent a postcard. Thinking about this made his stomach curl into knots.

Cath's world view was that if you went on vacation, you sent postcards home. And you did so early on, to maximize the chances of the cards actually beating you back. She'd bought a handful of cards a few days after they'd arrived, including one for his own parents (which she wrote for him later too, after it became obvious that he wasn't going to do it).

As Wilson had loitered around the postcard racks with her, she'd said, "What about House? He's your best friend; shouldn't you send him a card?"

Wilson initially shook his head; House was quite possibly the last person in the world who would either expect or appreciate a postcard. But the idea of making some tiny contact with House appealed to him, so he changed his mind. He picked out a card picturing a blonde, tanned woman, topless and wearing almost non-existent bikini bottoms, photographed from behind walking along a beach. Partly because it would give House at least a few seconds of pleasure (hey, it was hot); partly to give Cath the chance to tut indulgently at his choice.

He wrote _'Saw this and thought of you'_ on the back in his messy scrawl, and decided to leave it at that; House would not appreciate the usual mindless blurb about the weather and the hotel. He then hesitated over how to sign it. As it was to House, he would have naturally have signed it _Wilson_, but realized that would look odd once Cath added 'and Cath' next to it. But he didn't want to put _James_ as he'd signed all the other boring soulless cards.

So he settled on _Jimmy_, which gave Cath another chance to say, "You boys," and shake her head fondly.

Wilson had subsequently been given the job of taking the postcards down and putting them in the mailbox at the hotel reception. He put them all in the box except the one to House, which he felt rather dissatisfied with. He wanted to say more, try and convey something of how he was feeling; but it was a postcard, for God's sake, to be read by anyone in the mail along the way. And it wasn't even likely to reach House before they got back home.

He saw a pen lying on the hotel reception counter, and picked it up. He stared at the card for a minute, then wrote _'Wish you were here'_, on the bottom, underneath the signatures. He then posted it, quickly, before he changed his mind.

He soon regretted it, although not quite soon enough to do anything about it.

Now he sat waiting for Cath, looking at the sea without seeing it, wondering what House would make of it. He feared that House would understand both too well and not well enough.

* * *

House was standing in a bookstore flipping idly through the pages of a trashy novel looking for the sex scenes, when he heard his name being called. "House!"

House turned around, and it was Wilson, pushing his way through crowds of shoppers, beaming, and looking decidedly more tanned than when House had last seen him.

"Hey, Wilson," House greeted him casually, put down the book and glanced around. "Where's the wife?"

"She's at home. I just popped out to get a couple of books before term starts tomorrow. Wanna go get something to eat?" Wilson looked bright and well.

It was lunchtime. "Sure," House nodded, and they left the bookstore and fell into step towards the nearest deli. "You look sickeningly brown. Don't you want to be an oncologist? Hasn't anyone told you about melanomas yet?"

"I was careful, never got burned."

House looked at the top of Wilson's head; the sun had made his hair go one shade fairer than usual. It suited him.

They got a table and ordered meatball subs. House got a Coke and Wilson asked for coffee, claiming jet lag.

"So, when did you get back?" House asked, settling down in his seat.

"Yesterday." Wilson blew on his coffee. House watched Wilson's lips move and pucker. "Came home to find wedding presents everywhere, still wrapped up and everything. Need to send thank-yous. Lots to do."

House rolled his eyes. "Fucking wedding organization still going on."

"This is definitely the last part of it," Wilson said solemnly. "Please God, it has to be." Their sandwiches arrived. "Um, did you get the postcard?"

"No." House was intrigued. "You sent me a postcard?"

"It was Cath's idea." Wilson was immediately defensive.

"That is such a smug married thing to do." House was amused. He filched a meatball off Wilson's plate. "Did she buy it, too? And write it?"

"No," Wilson said indignantly, and hesitated. "I _wanted_ to send it. Anyway, I'm sure you'll get it soon."

They ate, and Wilson talked a little about his holiday, the resort, the hotel; the sun, the sand, the sea, the sex. Actually he didn't talk about the last, but House took it as read.

"So, what have you been up to?" Wilson asked at the end, scraping a last bit of tomato ketchup off his plate with a finger.

House fidgeted with a packet of sugar, watching Wilson suck his finger. "Oh, stuff. This and that. Actually, I've been looking into where I might do an infectious diseases residency."

Wilson paused with his finger still in his mouth, and looked at House, wide-eyed and incredulous. "But you haven't finished your nephrology certification. You've got another year yet."

"But I would have to start applying well before," House pointed out. "Need to start thinking about where. No point doing it here, can't stay here all my life."

They both knew that Wilson, only just through his first year as a med student, had several years to go yet at Columbia. Wilson looked so stricken at the thought of House leaving town that House's heart nearly melted, and this unwanted feeling of weakness spurred him to be nasty.

"Oh come on, grow up, Wilson. Everybody leaves in the end, after all. They move on. Get new jobs. Get married."

Wilson frowned. "What, we're back to _everybody lies and everybody leaves_?" He paused, then went on, speaking carefully and quietly, "Just because I got married doesn't mean I left you."

"Wilson, you've got a wife," House reminded him. "That may mean jack shit to you, but it means something to me."

"It means a lot to me too," Wilson said indignantly, and dropped his voice, low. "But... what are you trying to say? Thanks very much for the last year, it's been great, now that's it?" He spread his hands.

"We're still friends," House said, irritated, and dropped his voice too. "I'm just saying we shouldn't be _fuckbuddies_ any more."

Wilson stared at House. "And that's really what you want."

"You can't always get what you want." House stared back at Wilson's big brown eyes and steeled himself. There was a long silence during which House could feel his resolve crumbling, but Wilson cracked first.

"Okay. Fine. You're right." His voice was quiet and his gaze was on the ground. He put some money on the table and stood up abruptly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As Wilson walked out of the deli, House's eyes followed Wilson, and fixed on the black jeans that Wilson was wearing. They were tight. Indeed they seemed to be stuck to Wilson's body. And they made him look incredibly cute.

Eventually House got up and headed home, and spent too long that afternoon pondering Wilson's ass in those jeans. Wilson's married and now sadly unavailable ass.

This was not going to be easy.

House considered how best to mitigate the side effects of losing Wilson's ass. Porn seemed like the best way forward, and he headed to the video store that evening to stock up.

He spent the night in front of the TV. It was better than nothing, but to be honest, not a hell of a lot better.

* * *

Wilson wandered around shops for some time after his lunch with House in the deli, mulling over what House had said. What actually bothered him most was the idea that House was looking to move away in a year's time. The thought made his stomach curl into a knot.

Wilson couldn't see that they would stay in touch if House moved away. At least, not with anything like the same relationship they had. He remembered past schoolfriends and past college friends who he had been sure he would stay friends with forever, who were now nothing more than out-of-date addresses in a battered address book. It just didn't happen. Maintaining friendships over distances required an effort that he'd never really found time for. Hell, he'd only left McGill a year ago, where he'd had a bunch of good friends, and he'd hardly even thought to ask any of them to his wedding.

He arrived home and found Cath sitting in the kitchen of their small apartment, writing busily with a tall fountain pen; thank-you letters, he knew. She had music on and didn't hear him come in. He paused in the hallway, looking in at her through the kitchen door. Her curly hair had fallen down across her eyes; her tongue stuck slightly out from her mouth in concentration. Unopened boxes of kitchen appliances sat on worktops; wedding presents waiting to find a place in a cupboard. Dinner was in the oven and a gentle scent of steak and onions was wafting through the air. He felt a wave of affection for the scene of domestic bliss.

He glanced sideways into the front room, which was cluttered and messy with books and papers. It was his study as well as their sitting room. Stacks of lecture notes, copies of journal articles, and piles of medical textbooks dominated; his future as a doctor there between the pages. He thought about himself in a few years time, through med school, going on to his own specialization. He thought of House, already there, seeking his own area of expertise. He thought of House's room, equally cluttered and messy; House's battered but comfortable couch, piano, TV... the double bed in the corner, old and creaky but cozy and warm.

The thought of losing a year close to House, probably the last year he'd spend in the same town as House, seemed like the most senseless waste.

And Wilson looked from one doorway to the other, and suddenly saw his life very clearly in two compartments. In the one compartment was his wife, his home, creature comforts, a stable family life, just as he'd always wanted. In the other compartment was his career, the hospital, House; blue eyes and stubble and attitude, intelligence and wit, and strong hands, firm arms, muscular legs...

And Wilson didn't for the life of him see why he couldn't have both. So long as they didn't interfere with each other.

It would likely only be for a year, after all.

* * *

A few days later, House bumped into Wilson in the bar near the hospital. The bar was packed for a big game on the TV: they stayed and watched and shouted at the screen, and rolled outside together afterwards. They headed towards House's house, laughing and talking, close, familiar. They got all the way to House's front door and were standing in the small porch outside, before House, fumbling for his keys, realized dimly where they were.

"Hey," he said, balling the keys into his fist. "You don't live here anymore. You moved out ages ago."

"Shucks." Wilson looked at the door. "I guess I hoped you were inviting me in for coffee."

Suddenly they were standing very close. It was dark, and although they were outside, it felt very private in the small porch. House felt Wilson's breath against his cheek, saw Wilson's dark liquid eyes shining in the moonlight. And then he couldn't see any more, just feel; Wilson's lips on his own, Wilson's tongue pushing into his mouth, Wilson's hands pressed up against his chest.

With an effort, House pulled his head back and said hoarsely, "Wilson, for fuck's sake. I should not have to be the strong one here. You got married, you got back from your honeymoon less than a week ago!"

It was so not fair to be trying to maintain the moral high ground with Wilson's hard-on digging into his thigh. Not to mention his own hard-on, tenting large in his pants right now. House stepped backwards a little, putting a few inches of space between them.

Wilson's pupils were dilated, his breathing fast. His cheeks were flushed pink and his hair mussed. After a minute, he said, "Yes, I know, it's just..."

House waited, his head tilted on one side.

"It's like... there's various compartments in my life, you know? And you're one, and Cath is one, and so long as I keep them separate, it'll be fine--"

House listened to Wilson try and justify adultery, and then cut him off mid-sentence: "Wilson, that is all such utter _shit_."

Wilson opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment another guy walked up the path, and stopped short at the sight of them, standing close together in the porch. House had no idea what his name was, but recognized him as the med student who lived in the room underneath his. He was scared shitless of House. House fixed him with a glare; Wilson smiled apologetically. The guy hurried past them and let himself in the door, eyes on the ground.

Alone again, Wilson put his hands on his hips, and House could see Wilson's expression was different from when they'd talked in the deli. Wilson wasn't uncertain any more; he'd come to some kind of decision. But he didn't argue any further.

"Fine. Have it your way," he said, and his voice was light, much lighter than House expected. "_I'm _not going to beg. I'll see you tomorrow."

Wilson walked away down the path, and turned left onto the street, going towards home.

House let himself into his own front door, too rattled to respond. Wilson's words rang in his head - _I'm_ not going to beg. The emphasis was not lost on House. Wilson thought he'd got House wrapped around his little finger, did he?

Well, they'd soon find out who was really in charge of this relationship.

The porn that evening was even less satisfactory than before.

* * *

There were a few things House hadn't banked on before going cold turkey off Wilson. Firstly, Wilson was just as stubborn as he was. Secondly, Wilson was way more patient than he was. And thirdly, Wilson was a manipulative son-of-a-bitch.

A few days later House was in the bar near the hospital and saw Wilson enter with another group of people. Wilson spotted him and came straight over. He was wearing not only those black jeans but also a black T-shirt, and the T-shirt was cropped at the shoulders and as clingy as the jeans were. House watched the muscles move in his arms; Wilson's biceps weren't as toned as House's own, but right now, under the neon lights of the bar, they seemed to be rippling.

"Hey, House. What're you drinking?" Wilson asked brightly. His brown eyes shone in the dim light.

House muttered, "Bud," and Wilson turned towards the bar.

House watched the small square of skin at the back of Wilson's neck where his hair ended and his T-shirt began. And then House found himself looking at Wilson's jean-clad ass. Wilson obviously knew he was looking, and as House watched, Wilson placed one foot casually against a bar stool to give House a better view. And House looked, and couldn't help but remember that ass without the jeans, in the hotel suite, clenching against his cock--

For God's sake, he had to stop this. People would notice. With a supreme effort, House wrenched his gaze away and tried to think about something else, anything else. He thought of the diseased kidney one of his colleagues kept in a jar on his desk. That helped, at least momentarily.

Wilson joined him a minute later and handed him a bottle of beer. House took it and downed half in one gulp.

"So, how're things?" Wilson asked cheerfully.

House looked at Wilson, and Wilson was so desirable, it was almost indecent. He bit back the urge to bite Wilson on the neck and instead muttered, "Peachy."

A group of people pushed past them, and Wilson, jostled slightly, stepped to one side and his right shoulder brushed House's left shoulder. House felt as if he'd been scorched all down his left side. He flinched visibly; Wilson looked at him with raised bushy eyebrows.

House decided that Wilson had brushed against him on purpose. Somehow Wilson had gained the upper hand. House could feel himself losing control and he didn't like it.

House drained the bottle, slammed it down on a table, barked, "I gotta go," and strode out. He didn't look back, but he knew Wilson was looking after him, and smiling.

* * *

It took House several days to realize that Wilson was using the very fact of being unavailable to make himself more alluring. That it had been House who had drawn the line in the sand in the first place somehow seemed irrelevant.

It was, House realized, probably only a matter of time before he succumbed to the inevitable. Wilson was just too damn young and hot and attractive, and for fuck's sake, there were limits to what a man could resist. If Wilson wanted them to keep on fucking, and wanted to risk screwing up his marriage for the sake of some hot but probably doomed short-term sex, hell, it was his funeral.

Unexpectedly, however, something happened to make House see things a little differently.

House got home from the hospital one evening, opened his front door, and found a beach babe's butt staring up at him from the doormat. He picked up the postcard, amused. Impeccable taste, Wilson.

He started to walk up the stairs to his room, still looking at the picture, then he turned the card over. Jeez, Wilson had the worst handwriting ever. Clearly with writing like this Wilson was destined to end up as a doctor.

By the time he'd got to his room, he'd slowed his pace and was frowning. _'Wish you were here'_ - what sort of thing was that to say, on a card sent while on honeymoon?

Just a joke. Ha ha, very funny.

Except that Wilson had clearly written it last, after Cath had signed it (the pen was different and part of the initial W in _Wish_ overlapped Cath's name). It was likely Cath hadn't seen that line.

So what. So it was still a joke.

House frowned, and tapped the card thoughtfully. He put it up on a bookshelf, propping it upright, picture side showing. He stood back and looked at it. He didn't see the broad-hipped, slim-shouldered blonde woman; he saw broad masculine shoulders, a thicker waist, firm buttocks and strong thighs.

The thought abruptly dawned on him that what he had in front of him was a love letter.

Or at least, the closest to one that he'd likely ever get from Wilson.

It was a silly thought, but powerful. House gulped a little, and berated himself; s_tupid, sentimental, slushy bullshit. _

But it stayed with him all evening. House put on the TV and hardly saw or heard a thing; his gaze constantly swept towards the card on the bookcase. He tried to imagine what frame of mind Wilson, on his honeymoon, must have been in. Thinking about House.

House didn't bother with porn at all that evening. He relied on the memory of Wilson in that hotel suite the night before his wedding: brown eyes swimming underneath him, body rocking beneath his weight, ass ready and willing to take him.

* * *

The next day, House met Wilson over lunch, and goddamnit, this really was the last straw. Wilson had had a busy practical morning in the labs, and had clearly come straight from the shower. His cheeks were flushed red and his hair was still damp and plastered over his forehead. It was all House could do not to lean over the table and ravish him there and then.

Instead, House said gruffly at the end of the meal, "Wanna go for a drink tonight?"

"Sorry, can't do tonight," Wilson said. He sounded regretful. House couldn't tell if he was telling the truth or stringing him along. And he really didn't like not being able to tell.

"Tomorrow night, then." That was his last offer; anything more would sound desperate.

"Tomorrow, sure," Wilson nodded. "See you in the bar." He got up and left. House gazed after him, thinking, _I'm being played by a master._

* * *

When the following evening came, Wilson was already in the bar when House approached. From outside the door he could see Wilson, leaning against the bar, talking to a woman serving drinks. He was wearing those jeans again, and a crisp white T-shirt that wasn't clingy but instead radiated brilliance and light. House watched as Wilson leaned forward, put his head on one side, and laughed at something. Goddamn it, he was flirting with her. Jealousy hit House in the chest like a freight train and temporarily paralyzed him.

When he was able to move, House walked away from the bar door and a few paces around the side of the building. He leaned against the wall. The brick was cool against his forehead. His head spun with the illogic of it all. Wilson was _married_, for goodness sake, and House had never felt anything more than slight contempt for his wife. Now here he was unable to watch Wilson exchange a few friendly words with a barmaid. He hated to admit it, even just to himself--but in this unspoken, undefined and ridiculous battle of wills between them, Wilson had won.

"House? Are you okay?"

House looked up to see Wilson standing just a couple of feet away, looking uncertain for the first time in weeks. Close up, he could see Wilson's hair was flyaway, as if newly washed and dried, and that his face was smooth and freshly shaven. House noticed Wilson's eyelashes--soft, curling, alluring.

"Come back to my place," House said in a low voice.

Now Wilson's eyes glinted with amusement, and, House observed, mischief. Wilson leaned against the wall, mirroring House's pose, and said slowly and deliberately, "You want to fuck me, House?"

My God, and now they were role-playing. A few seconds ago House would have bet that nothing in the world could have made James Wilson more attractive than he was right now. Clearly he'd been wrong, again. Wilson now not only playing hard to get, but also talking dirty.

House batted it straight back, and growled, "You bet your pretty little ass I do."

"Are you sure?" Wilson said innocently.

"You goddamn cocktease," House hissed. "You've been dangling that pretty little ass of yours in front of me for weeks. Come back to my place right now, or I'll swear to God I'll strangle you right here."

He saw Wilson's eyes darken and liquify, and knew he'd finally gotten to Wilson just as Wilson had gotten to him. Wilson simply nodded, and they both turned to walk away.

* * *

They arrived at House's room, and Wilson spotted the postcard on the shelf immediately. To House's amusement, he blushed. House suspected that Wilson had managed to convince himself over the last couple of weeks that the postcard had got lost and gone to postcard heaven, and would never actually show up.

"Um--you got the card," Wilson said hesitantly.

"I did," House agreed, pulling his jacket off. He turned and looked at Wilson with penetrating eyes. "I especially liked the wish you were _her."_

Wilson took a second to process what House had said, then his cheeks went a darker shade of pink. "I did not write that!" He fairly leapt across the room and grabbed the card off the shelf. "Here! Wish you were _here!_ That is definitely an E."

"Here, her, her, here, whatever," House said, with a dismissive flick of the hand, and suddenly Wilson was right next to him, and then Wilson kissed House fiercely on the mouth.

House grabbed at Wilson, pushing Wilson's jacket up his arms, tugging at sleeves. Wilson yanked his T-shirt off over his head, and House plastered hands across the bare chest, waiting there for him. Wilson bunched House's own T-shirt up in his fists, and House pulled Wilson close to him. He breathed in Wilson's hair, treasuring the gentle smell of soap and shampoo, and his hard-on was positively painful now. This was not going to last long.

They fastened lips and grappled for a minute, competing not only to get each others clothes off, but also for control. But House, having conceded the wider position, was not going to let immediate domination slip from his grasp. This wasn't about stubbornness, or patience, or wiles anymore; it was about determination, and House was the more determined. He was also bigger and stronger than Wilson.

"Down on the rug," House commanded breathlessly and Wilson complied, dropping to his knees. House dropped down too, and with one hand on Wilson's shoulder, spun Wilson around to face away from him. He reached around to undo Wilson's belt buckle; Wilson uttering a series of small gasps as House's fingers probed beneath the denim, and eased jeans and boxers down together. The sight of Wilson's ass partially exposed made House's cock surge again; God, he had to do this soon, or he would come right there in his own pants.

House fished into a pocket for a condom, undid his own fly and pulled his pants down slightly, just enough to pull out his cock and roll on the condom. He wasn't about to stop and look for lube now, so he spat on his hand as hard as he could, and slicked his cock with that. He slid a wet finger up inside Wilson and the moan he got in return almost sent House into a frenzy. House came in hard and fast, the pants still round his knees driving him in at a tighter angle than he might have done otherwise. Wilson cried out and tried to move his legs further apart, but was also constricted by his own jeans, still sitting halfway round his thighs. House hardened his heart, ignored the cry, and thrust again.

_Finally_ he had Wilson - after those weeks of being taunted, being tempted, that beautiful chest and that perfect ass were right underneath him, and he had control. His whole body shuddered with effort and desire; he reached around to grasp and pull at Wilson's cock. Soon Wilson's gasps of pain changed to gasps of climax as he spurted into House's hand; House then came inside him with a rush, and then pulled out almost as quickly, causing Wilson to yelp again.

"You _bastard_," Wilson panted, his arms and legs shaking uncontrollably.

"You love me like this," House responded, unable to stop trembling himself. He kissed Wilson deep on the mouth, then they flopped together on the floor in a half-dressed muddle.

House's last conscious thought before passing out was that perhaps he could learn to compartmentalize too.

END OF PART FIVE. TBC.

A/N: Next part: House has a run-in with Wilson's brother.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 6  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta**: this fic greatly improved by triedunture.  
**A/N: **Part 6 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.

**Summary: **Another run-in with Wilson's brother, last seen punching House on the nose in Part 4.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food - Part 6**

Wilson slid down into the seat opposite House and put his tray on the table. "Hey."

"Hey." House scanned the tray expertly, and as Wilson had expected, plucked the cherry tomato resting on the top of the salad and popped it in his mouth. "What's with the salad, wifey got you on a health kick?"

It was Monday lunchtime, and they hadn't seen each other for a few days. Wilson had enjoyed a nice cozy weekend at home with Catherine.

"Just giving you the chance to pop my cherry," Wilson said, absolutely deadpan. "How was your hot date?"

He knew House had had a date that weekend with a long-legged brunette who worked as an attending in Infectious Diseases: House had been pursuing her partly for the long legs and partly because he was researching possible places to do an Infectious Diseases residency.

"Hot." House grinned. It was a self-satisfied grin, and Wilson deduced that House had spent some time finding out just how long those legs were. They had spent an inordinate amount of time debating this the previous week.

Wilson began to eat, then remembered he had something to show House.

"We got the wedding photos back from the photographer," Wilson said, and reached for his inside pocket. "Now we have to hawk them around friends and family and see if anyone wants to order any copies."

House eyed the envelope with alarm and said, "You don't seriously expect me to."

"Of course not," Wilson said with mock indignation. "That would be boring, and suburban. But... you might want to take a look at a few. You are _in _some of them, as you were the best man."

House took the envelope, opened it and removed a small sheaf of photographs. Wilson had carefully filleted them and there were no shots that were just bride and groom or family to endure; just the pictures House himself had been in. House flipped through in an offhand way (which didn't fool Wilson at all) and stopped short at the last one.

The photographer had wandered around taking some candid shots, and Wilson couldn't remember this photo being taken at all; from the look on House's face, neither could House. Wilson did remember the point in the day; a shared moment of conversation, standing, waiting for drinks before dinner. There they were: both in tux tails, Wilson immaculate, House with his cravat pulled loose and his stubble scored across his jawline. Wilson was smiling at something House was saying, and leaning in slightly, eyes on House; House was standing with one hand upturned and head slightly on one side, apparently making a point, looking straight at Wilson.

They weren't touching, but they were close. Not too close, not so close that a casual observer would have thought twice about it. But close enough so that if you were looking for it, it looked like an intimate moment.

House gazed at the picture for a moment, then slid it into his own inside pocket, saying, "You don't expect me to pay."

Wilson, who had already put in an order for another copy of this picture, dropped his voice. "Cash, checks, Visa, Amex, blow jobs. All welcome."

A slow smile crawled across House's face.

"Look," Wilson added, getting to the real point. "Cath is flying out to her mom's this weekend, taking the photos to get orders from her family. I thought maybe I could come over Friday night?"

* * *

Friday night, House lay on his front, eyes squeezed shut, pillowcase balled up in his mouth.

Wilson had been sitting atop fucking him very, very slowly for at least a quarter of an hour now, and House had been riding a steady roller coaster of agony shot through with bright gleaming threads of ecstasy for quite some time. His own cock, huge and swollen and leaking, was pressed painfully between his belly and the bed sheets.

Wilson's knuckles kneaded House's shoulders as he thrust again, and House bit down on the pillow and felt another wave of amazement that Wilson could _do_ this; keep him teetering on the edge for so long, while holding off from what must be a really painful near-orgasm himself...

This had to stop. With an effort, House bucked his own hips and clenched his butt cheeks together as hard as he could. He heard a very satisfying exclamation from Wilson at the interruption to his flow. A few seconds later, Wilson grabbed House's shoulders so tightly that House knew he'd have bruises, pressed further up House's ass than House would have thought possible, and came. House saw stars and as Wilson ground him furiously into the bed, House climaxed messily into the mattress too.

Wilson fell off House, and they lay next to each other for a bit, recovering.

After a while, House muttered, "If you're staying, you can change this sheet."

"Huh." Wilson sounded amused. "Well, I was gonna stay, until you said that..."

House reached out and flicked the top of Wilson's head affectionately. They both knew that Wilson was staying over. It was the first time his wife had been away for a night since he'd gotten married, and they were both thoroughly enjoying it.

"Tomorrow," Wilson said sounding a trifle sleepy, "I was thinking maybe you could come over to my place."

House disliked Wilson's apartment, which had Catherine's interior design stamped all over it. "Don't tell me you want to get ass-fucked in your marital bed."

There was a short silence and House knew he'd hit on the truth. "No," Wilson said, too late.

House rolled his eyes. "You fancy a bit of frottage among the frills? A bijou blow job?"

"No!" Wilson protested unconvincingly. "But... there's a freezerful of food and a cabinet of decent alcohol. It'll be fun. So long as we don't trash the place."

House instinctively didn't like the idea. He had found that the way to cope with Wilson being married was to conveniently forget that fact at all crucial moments. Such as moments when Wilson looked at him through large swimming brown eyes and muttered through the corner of his mouth, _wanna fuck?_ This strategy would be difficult at Wilson's apartment. There would be wedding present kitchen appliances, wedding present Egyptian cotton bed sheets, and stultifying heavy floral curtains to cast a shadow.

On the other hand, it might be quite fun. Just for the change of scenery. After all, they were pretty much confined to House's room otherwise, for that sort of thing. House remembered the last time elsewhere, the night in the hotel before Wilson's wedding, the two of them face to face on that couch, Wilson's brown eyes shining in the dark, his cock sliding up Wilson's ass. The thought was so evocative that House knew he'd be hard again right now, if he hadn't just come as hard as he had.

"I call guest room," he said, in a vain attempt to mitigate Wilson's grossly inappropriate suggestion.

"We don't have a guest room," Wilson pointed out. "You can sleep on the couch, if you really want..."

House rolled his eyes, knowing Wilson was going to get what he wanted.

* * *

Wilson left House's room the following morning after a pleasant breakfast (he had had the foresight to bring Cheerios along for them both), and spent some time finding books in the library and doing a bit of shopping in a leisurely fashion. He then got himself some lunch, and arrived home mid-afternoon humming cheerfully and looking forward to House's arrival later on. House was at lacrosse practice, which took place regularly on Saturday afternoons.

However, Wilson found his plans thrown into upheaval when he let himself in to his apartment building, and found a figure sitting on the step outside his front door.

"Jon!"

It was his brother, slouched slightly sideways, eyes closed. He opened them when Wilson spoke, and peered blearily upwards. Wilson looked into the deep brown pools and immediately diagnosed _drunk_. Dammit. Jonathan was not good when he was drunk.

"James," Jonathan said, and his voice was slurred. "Where the fuck have you been? I've been here for hours."

"Um, sorry, I didn't know you were coming to visit," Wilson evaded the question. He turned the key in the lock; Jon leaned away from the door as it opened.

"I phoned you this morning and left a message, but you haven't been home." Jonathan hauled himself to his feet, and followed Wilson inside. "Laura's left me."

"What? Oh no!" Laura was Jonathan's wife; they'd been married several years and had two little girls. "God, I'm sorry Jon, what the hell happened?"

"What the hell happened is your fucking _friend_ House happened," Jonathan declared, and sat down heavily on a chair. Wilson realized Jon wasn't just drunk, but angry, and bitter. This really was not good. "At your fucking wedding. Talking about that hooker right in front of Laura--she gave me no end of shit about it, hasn't forgotten, has been bugging me about it ever since. Yesterday we were fighting about it again and she snapped and said she was going home to her mom. And she took the kids with her."

"Shit."

"Yeah. So I followed her to New York...but she won't see me." Jonathan's voice clotted with self-pity. "Won't even open the fucking door. I stayed out there all night. Then I thought I'd come and see you. I thought you could talk to her."

"Uh?" Wilson said uneasily.

"Tell her anything, whatever might work. It was a bachelor party, for Chrissake. Your bachelor party. She'll listen to you. She likes you." Jonathan looked at Wilson appealingly. "Tell her everyone was doing hookers, not just me."

"I'm not saying that," Wilson said sharply.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not true! And if it got back to Cath--"

"You won't go out on a limb for me." Hurt filled Jonathan's voice. "Your _only_ brother." Jonathan stressed the _only_.

Wilson glared helplessly in the face of emotional blackmail, and after a minute said, "I'll talk to her. But I'm not going to lie to her."

"Yeah, because you never lie to anyone, do you?" Jonathan mocked, and Wilson looked away.

* * *

As soon as Jonathan was sufficiently distracted with a homemade club sandwich between his jaws and a bottle of whiskey at his elbow, Wilson rushed off to call House. No answer, though; House would be at lacrosse by now. Wilson breathed out through his teeth in exasperation. Damn it, he had no way of contacting House out there on the practice field. House would come straight from there to here, via the showers... and Jonathan was here, and there was nothing Wilson could do about it.

Since Jonathan was already drunk and maudlin, Wilson decided the best thing to do was keep him like that. They sat and talked for a bit, Wilson explaining about Cath having gone away for the weekend, Jonathan elaborating moodily on the fights he'd been having with Laura recently.

Eventually Jonathan slipped into a drunken doze, which was exactly what Wilson had hoped for. He took the glass out of Jon's hand and propped a cushion behind Jon's head. He then moved around the apartment quietly, tidying up, hoping his brother would stay asleep for as long as possible.

After a while, Wilson heard the sound he'd been waiting for; a key in the door. House, letting himself in. Wilson glanced at Jonathan, who had his eyes shut and his mouth hanging slightly open, then tiptoed out of the room. He crept into the hallway just as House was closing the front door behind him.

"House," Wilson whispered, and House looked at him in surprise. "Change of plan. You remember Jonathan, my brother? Who gave you a nosebleed at my wedding?"

"He may be your brother but he's a Grade A bastard," House growled. "Why?"

"He's here. His wife left him. He's drunk and miserable. And, um, he blames you."

"Me! What the fuck?" House's voice rose in indignation and Wilson shushed him hastily.

"You let on about that hooker in front of his wife, remember?"

"That was an accident!" House was outraged. "I didn't know she was there. And he's got nobody to blame except himself for his miserable fucking sex life."

"Look, we're going to have to take a raincheck." Wilson spoke as apologetically as he could. "I'm going to call his wife, see if I can get her to see him..."

House took a deep breath. "Fucking great. Call me when he's safely in the next state."

"I'm sorry," Wilson said sincerely, and House reached out to pluck Wilson's sleeve gently.

Wilson raised a hand and brushed it briefly against House's stubbled cheek, wanting some small contact, regretting the night they weren't going to have together after all. House stood still for a second, his hand curled round Wilson's arm, then turned and left. Wilson paused for a moment, then turned and went back into his apartment.

Immediately he realized he'd made a mistake; Jonathan hadn't been asleep after all, or he had just woken up. He was sitting up now, glaring through bleary eyes. Wilson's mind raced. The door had been slightly ajar. If Jonathan had seen through the doorway to the hall--if he'd seen Wilson and House--what would he have seen? (Thank fuck they hadn't kissed...)

"That was House," Jonathan observed, his voice thick with sleep and alcohol.

"He just dropped by. He's gone now," Wilson said firmly.

"Bastard," Jonathan muttered. He rested his head in a hand, apparently thinking things through. "He let himself in. He had a key."

Wilson wasn't sure where this was going, but it couldn't be good. "He keeps a spare for me, Jon, it's no big deal--"

"He still live at your old place?" Jonathan asked.

"Er, yes." Wilson didn't really want to answer this, but it seemed silly to lie. "Jon, he didn't know Laura was there when he mentioned the hooker. It was an accident. That's all." He reached out and put a pacifying hand on Jonathan's arm. "He didn't mean--"

But at Wilson's touch, Jonathan reacted sharply, throwing up his arm, catching Wilson off balance. Next moment, Jonathan roared, "Don't you apologize for that fucking _bastard._ He wrecked my marriage--I'm gonna find him, and I'm gonna beat the crap out of him!" and Wilson felt the flat of his brother's hand slap sharply against his face.

Wilson fell, and a sharp pain flashed in the side of his head as he did so; he'd hit it on the corner of the coffee table.

He lay on the floor for, momentarily stunned. The deep pile of the carpet tickled his cheek. He looked up, his vision slightly blurred, and saw Jonathan moving around the room, then leaving the apartment. The door slammed behind him.

Wilson felt the side of his head had become wet, and put a tentative hand up to touch it. It came away red with blood. Feeling a little weak, Wilson lay still for several minutes.

* * *

House arrived home in a sour mood, his evening with Wilson apparently down the drain. Wilson's asshole brother screwing things up, the jerk. House wondered if it would be too short notice to call the long-legged brunette from Infectious Diseases.

He didn't pursue this because he had no sooner come in the door and taken his jacket off when the phone rang.

House picked up. "Hey."

"House, he's coming to find you." Wilson sounded shaken. "Jonathan's gone out to find you. He says he's going to beat the crap out of you."

House was alarmed. "What the fuck happened?"

"He just left my place. He's drunk, House, he's not rational at all." Wilson's voice cracked slightly.

House sensed something else was wrong. "Are you alright?" he asked sharply.

"I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me, Wilson," House snapped, feeling anxiety rising in his gut. "What happened?"

"He--slapped me--it was nothing, but I fell and hit my head on the corner of the table. It's bleeding, just a bit."

House had no doubt this was an understatement. Fury balled inside him at the thought of anyone hitting, _hurting, _Wilson. Wilson's fucking brother being free with his fists again--if House had had Jonathan in front of him now he would have killed him. "Wilson, stay where you are, I'm coming right over."

"House, there's no need--I'm fine, honest."

"You know how serious head injuries can be. Sit down, stay still, and don't move until I get there." House moved swiftly through the room, picking up jacket and keys. "I'm on my way."

He left the house and was walking swiftly down the driveway towards his motorcycle, when someone came up from behind and punched him in the back of his head.

House felt the rush of air coming towards him at the last moment and dodged, but the blow still caught him across the ear and made him stumble. A second blow on the back made him lose his balance, and he fell to the ground. His assailant grabbed him by the arm and pulled him several feet across the ground to the alleyway round the side of the house, then kicked him hard in the stomach.

Winded and caught by surprise, House was temporarily helpless to do anything but try and roll out of the way while Wilson's brother aimed repeated kicks at his stomach and head. Jonathan was moving slowly, so House was able to evade the worst of the blows and aim a couple of kicks back, but he couldn't get quite far enough away to stand up.

Eventually Jonathan stopped, and said roughly, "You fucker, you broke up my marriage."

"Fuck off," House gasped. He propped himself up on an elbow and wondered if he could scramble onto his feet quickly enough. Jonathan kicked his arm, and House fell to the ground again.

"I've been married four years, two kids, nice home, everything fine. Then James's freaky, fucked-up, _friend_ comes along and screws everything up. " Jonathan spat the word _friend _out.

"Fuck off, you cheating asshole," House hissed, and rolled swiftly to the left as Jonathan aimed a kick at his crotch this time. Shit, that was close. If he could just stand up, he was sure he could take Jonathan out...

"Do you want me to keep kicking the shit out of you?" Jonathan demanded.

"What do _you_ want?" House panted, but Jonathan was distracted. House had dropped his jacket on the ground in the fracas, and Jonathan picked it up. A photo was poking out of the inner pocket; the photo of House and Wilson at the wedding.

Jonathan looked at it through suspicious eyes. He frowned, his brain apparently clicking through gears, and his face darkened. He looked down at House with a newly suspicious expression.

"What are you, a faggot? Is that why you hang around my brother--you trying to do him? Fucking pervert!" Jonathan screwed the photograph up into a ball and slammed his foot into House's groin. This time House couldn't move out of the way quickly enough.

House couldn't speak at all now, though he knew exactly what he would like to say--_I've been doing your brother ever since I met him and he loves it. So shut the fuck up about what you don't understand, asshole. _Instead he tried to breathe, stared at the crumpled photograph on the ground where Jonathan had dropped it, and wondered if he could manage to gather the strength to hit the bastard at least once.

A new voice intervened. "Jonathan!"

Jonathan looked round, and saw his brother, standing a few feet away, having just got out of his car. Wilson was as white as a sheet, except for red blood persistently trickling down from under a bandage on the side of his forehead. He looked unsteady on his feet, too. House's heart was in his mouth at the sight of the blood.

Wilson didn't look at House. Instead he concentrated on staring at his brother.

"Go home, James," Jonathan commanded.

"Jon," Wilson stepped closer. "You need to go home. Sober up. We can talk this all out in a few days' time."

"This has got nothing to do with you," Jonathan shouted, and House started to gather his strength together again.

"You've done enough damage for one day," Wilson continued, and stepped closer. "Leave it. Go home. Take some time out."

Jonathan was distracted, and House took his opportunity. He put all the effort he could into one kick at Jonathan's legs, whipping them out from under him.

As Jonathan crashed to the ground, both House and Wilson were on him, pinning him down. House grabbed Jonathan's head and brought it sharply down on the concrete with a crack. Jonathan's eyes went sideways and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Didn't you just tell me about head injuries?" Wilson couldn't help but rebuke.

House glared at him. "I don't care if he's your brother or not, he's a fucking asshole."

* * *

House dosed himself up on the strongest painkillers he could find and had a long bath, to try and soak away the bruises on his battered body. It helped, a bit. Afterward he went to watch TV and drink brandy (for medicinal reasons, of course), but found after a while that sitting too long hurt his aching ribs, and wearing clothes rubbed on his bruises. He went to undress and lie down in bed instead, and fell asleep.

He was woken that evening by Wilson arriving. "Hey," Wilson called as he walked in the door.

"Hey," House called from the bedroom. He stretched out, and found he was still sore and smarting all over.

Wilson came in, looking pale and tired, and with a large fresh sticking bandage on the side of his head. He sat down on the side of the bed next to House.

"I left him with Laura and Laura's mom," he said. "Halfway sober and starting to feel fucking ashamed of himself, thank God."

"Huh." House turned his head to nuzzle Wilson's thigh.

Wilson sighed a little, reached down to stroke House's head, and said, "I told him whatever he might have thought he saw in the hallway, and in the photo, he hadn't seen anything, because there was nothing to see. He took it like a baby."

House hummed a little into Wilson's leg. Wilson bent down to take off his shoes (typical Wilson, being neat), then flopped down on the bed next to House. House moved forward, caught Wilson's lips neatly between his own, and sucked briefly before letting them slide away. Wilson made a small humming sound of pleasure back.

House lifted a hand to touch the sticking gauze on Wilson's head, radiating silent concern.

"Just a cut," Wilson assured him. "And what about you? I thought you might have broken a rib or something."

"No broken bones. No thanks to your brother." House moved his hand to curl around Wilson's neck. "Lot of leeway you and your family seem to give him."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, then said, "We cut him some slack."

House thought something new might be coming, and waited.

But instead Wilson just shrugged, and said lightly, "You've met my parents; you know how it is."

"You're the one living up to their expectations," House interpreted, and nodded, satisfied with this. He decided this was a good moment to plant the seed of something he wanted to pursue in future. "Well, you owe me, big time. I've had enough of your family recently to last a very long time, so it's your turn next."

"Oh?"

"I have to go see my parents this Christmas and you're coming with me."

"I don't think so," Wilson protested, with a small incredulous laugh. "I can make it up to you another way..."

He reached down and pulled back the bed sheet, and exclaimed out loud at the marks arching down House's body. House had a number of small cuts from Jonathan's boots and from rolling on the concrete, which showed up as prominent red lines. House also had a lot of bruises, mostly still pale and yellow, but some already coming up pleasantly purple. House lay back with his eyes shut while Wilson ran his hands lightly over the sore spots on House's chest, then downwards, running oh-so-gentle fingers over House's crotch.

Wilson then stopped and gasped in horror at a particularly large bruise on House's right leg, which was blacker than the rest. It stood out as a large ugly blot on House's powerful, muscled thigh.

"Jon did _that?_"

House took pity on him, and explained, "Actually, that one was from lacrosse this afternoon."

"Oh." Wilson touched it, tracing lightly around the edge. Then he moved down the bed, clambering carefully over House's dark thigh, and took House's cock in his mouth.

House, still a trifle sore down there, had barely begun to get hard until that moment, but the sensation of Wilson's tongue lapping gently at the tip soon changed all that. He lay back and closed his eyes, feeling Wilson's lips run up and down his shaft, feeling blood rushing to the area. Wilson cupped his balls in one hand, and traced the fingers of the other down House's ass, running delicately along House's butt cheeks, all the while carefully lapping and sucking.

He then abruptly stopped to jam a finger up House's asshole. God, Wilson was just so _good._ House groaned heavily, feeling his whole body twitch and jerk in response, and came a minute later, pumping hard into Wilson's mouth. Wilson, still fully dressed, fished in a pocket for a handkerchief and spat expertly.

House watched through bleary eyes as Wilson sat back on his heels, unzipped his own fly and took out his cock. He started to jerk himself off, running his hand backwards and forward. Fuck, what an awesome, glorious sight. House wondered if the sight of his bruises were providing an additional turn-on here; he kind of thought they were. Wilson, full of surprises as ever.

After a few minutes House found the strength to join in; he reached forward and wrapped his own fist around Wilson's, pumping along in unison. He then ghosted a thumb over the head of Wilson's cock, and that did it; Wilson lurched forward and came with a cry, spurting across House's bruised chest.

They lay close together in post-orgasmic exhaustion, not touching but a comfortable inch apart, and House fell asleep almost immediately

* * *

Wilson lay awake watching House long after House had gone to sleep, turning his secret over and over in his mind, silently relieved that he'd managed to keep it. He'd rarely come that close to spilling it.

Jonathan could be a complete ass. He wasn't always, it was alcohol that fueled his unpleasant side, and it was unusual to see him quite this bad. But nevertheless his opinions were deeply ingrained, drunk or sober. Wilson knew if he _ever _admitted to an intimate, physical relationship with House, then he'd lose his only remaining brother.

Wilson just couldn't let that happen. Because Jon was his only remaining brother. He thought of Jonathan's face, twisted in anger and fury, and then a different face--different but also the same, Jonathan's identical twin, David. They had been inseparable, once upon a time. Until the day their father had finally had enough of all the shit David had put their family through, and kicked him out, never to be seen again.

It had come as such a relief to Wilson at the time, back in high school. But the relief had curdled over the years into regret, and a nagging doubt that surely they could have done things differently somehow.

And ultimately, this was why Wilson was willing to give his remaining brother so much slack. Because his nagging doubt was Jonathan's private torment. If Wilson sometimes felt David's loss as the aching absence of something that really should be there, like a missing tooth, he knew that Jonathan felt every minute of every day that his soul had been torn in two.

END OF PART 6. TBC.

* * *

A/N: Next part: Wilson has an affair.

The story of Wilson's House family Christmas is told in _Wilson the Parent Charmer_: Five Times Wilson met House's Parents (and one time he didn't).  
And the New Year that followed is Countdown.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 7  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Warning:** Also some Wilson/OFC in this part.  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** this fic again greatly improved by triedunture.  
**A/N: **Part 7 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. **  
****Summary: **Wilson has an affair. House grapples with the implications.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food - Part 7**

Wilson first met her in the library. She'd been close to tears because the last copy of an essential basic biology textbook which she really, really needed for an assignment had just been checked out by someone else. She was small and pretty, wearing a not terribly flattering dress over a flowery blouse, and had long dark hair hanging down in corkscrews.

Wilson stopped, told her he had the same book at home from his own undergrad days, would be happy to lend it to her. She'd brightened up immediately and been enormously grateful.

He brought the book in the next day. They'd gone for coffee--she'd insisted as thanks for his help. She'd flirted with him across the table, batting large eyelashes, nudging his knee. He'd mentioned his wife a couple of times, in a rather self-conscious way. It didn't make any discernible difference. Then he found she was set on repaying him in an additional way--up against the outside wall out back behind the hospital, by the garbage cans.

"I'm married," he managed to gasp as she unzipped his pants.

"I know. It's a real turn on," she breathed in his ear, then dropped to her knees.

Wilson's brain stopped working at that point and didn't return to full function for quite some time.

* * *

House had been in a few bands in his time, but inevitably found in the end that his ideas as to the kind of music they should play were vetoed unanimously by all other band members.

He was, however, occasionally pressured into playing in the unofficial hospital band, which periodically formed to play Rolling Stones covers on occasions like fund raisers. House had ceased to be a member after a heated fight with the lead vocalist, an obstetrician who talked incessantly about how he'd once nearly gotten a record deal in his college days. But in emergencies this dispute was forgotten and House was called in, as House was able to effortlessly step in to play either keyboards or guitar and perform with almost no rehearsal.

This was one such occasion, as the band were supposed to play a gig as part of a fund raiser the hospital was putting on to raise money for a new pediatric ward. The usual keyboard player, a toxicologist, dropped out with suspected food poisoning the day before. Despite House's protestation that there were quite enough sick children in this hospital without encouraging more, House was eventually persuaded to play.

The gig, on a makeshift stage in the half-built new ward, went well; lots of hospital staff came, and House secretly enjoyed it, although was careful not to let on.

He was packing up afterwards when his girlfriend came striding up onto the stage. The steps were steep and she was wearing a short skirt. House, along with half the other people in the ward, admired the length of exposed leg.

"Congratulations," she greeted him. "That was cool."

They kissed, then House pulled back to ask, "Did you manage to talk to your friend in Boston?"

An impatient look passed over her face. "Yes, I did. Yes, they might be prepared to take on another resident in Infectious Diseases there next year, yes, she'll be at that conference in New Orleans, but honestly, Greg, I wish you'd stop bugging me about this."

"Sorry," House said insincerely, and seeing this wasn't good enough, added a slightly more heartfelt, "Thanks."

House then spotted Wilson and his wife making their way onto the stage, and waved. His girlfriend moved off to say hello to Catherine, and Wilson came up to House with a grin. "Sounded good."

"Have I got myself a groupie?" House grinned back.

"Yeah, can I have your autograph?"

House dropped his voice, and muttered, "I'll autograph your butt."

Wilson smiled and also dropped his voice. "That might just get me into trouble. Listen, House, can you do me a favor?"

House looked at him suspiciously. "Nope."

Wilson ignored this and went on, "I was out late with you last night if Cath asks you, OK?"

House reflected yet again that James Wilson somehow always retained the capacity to surprise him.

"But I was rehearsing for this last night." House waved an arm around the stage.

"Then I was here listening. And we went for a drink afterwards, okay? Thanks," Wilson said brightly, and turned as if to walk away.

"Whoa, hold on!" House said firmly. Wilson turned back to him. "You don't get to ask a favor like that without saying why. Where _were _you last night?"

"Where do you think?"

House rolled his eyes. "With another woman, I assume."

"That's right. So now you know. Thanks!" Wilson turned again. House, infuriated, grabbed Wilson's arm.

"Uh huh. I want names, I want places, I want dates. Anyway, why are you lying to your wife about it? Don't you usually tell her about your affairs?" House looked intently at Wilson, differential diagnosis in full swing. Wilson glared back. House continued, "But not until after it's all over. So this one's still going on. You're seeing her again. Who is she?"

Wilson looked at him steadily. "I'm not telling you."

"You realize that's only a delaying tactic." House paused, then said magnanimously, "I'll lie to your wife if you come over tomorrow evening, and I'll autograph your butt."

"Just so long as you don't use permanent marker," Wilson muttered back, and House grinned broadly.

* * *

There was a reason why Wilson didn't want to tell House who she was.

After their third up-against-a-wall encounter, Wilson had been definitely feeling in need of some creature comforts next time. He couldn't possibly take her back to his and Cath's apartment, of course. And hotels were unacceptably expensive; he was an impecunious medical student and she was an even more impoverished undergraduate.

"We can go back to my house," Pearl said. "We just have to pick a time when my dad's working. He hates me dating. He'd never let me see you if he found out you were married. Actually, he'd probably kill you."

"You live with your father?" Wilson was surprised.

"Well, he works here, he's a doctor. Perhaps he teaches you?--he's head of nephrology."

Crap. Crap, crap, crap! _"Nephrology? _You mean--" Wilson scrabbled around his brain for the name, "--Dr. Dawlish? He's your father?"

She nodded. "You know him?"

"Uh. Yeah. Kind of."

As a mere med student, Wilson wouldn't normally have been anywhere near the radar of a department head. But as the best friend of House, the brilliant but tempestuous nephrology resident, he was.

Dr. Seth Dawlish was Head of the Nephrology Department, and Wilson knew his reputation was hard but fair. He'd heard House chafe somewhat under his leadership sometimes, but then Wilson couldn't imagine a boss that House wouldn't chafe under.

Wilson knew him only very slightly. But--and here Wilson's heart sank--the one thing Dr. Dawlish would remember about Wilson was that he was married. Dawlish had given House time off work during the week of Wilson's wedding . Dawlish had been amused at the whole idea of House being a best man, he'd even popped into the bachelor party for a swift half, said congratulations--

Crap, crap, _crap!_

"I don't think we can see each other anymore," he blurted out.

She reared her head back, astonished. "What, because of my _dad?_"

"He knows me. Knows I'm married. If he ever saw me with you--"

"He doesn't have to." Her face displayed alarm. "Please don't break up with me because of my dad! He's driven away boyfriends of mine before, it's horrible, he just doesn't want me to have any social life at all!"

Her eyes filled with tears. Wilson bit his lip and put his arms around her.

She got her way. (The sex _was _really good). Dawlish worked long hours, was predictably busy for long periods of time during the day and sometimes at weekends, and occasionally away for a night. They just had to be careful when they went there.

* * *

Wilson arrived at House's the following evening as promised to find House on him as soon as he walked in the door. Blue eyes gleamed brightly as House pounced.

"You are a bad fucking boy, Jimmy," House growled in his ear, hands roving underneath Wilson's jacket, pulling at shirt buttons. He slid his fingers onto Wilson's torso, sliding fingertips across Wilson's smooth chest.

"Uh," Wilson said weakly. He could feel House's cock hard against his thigh. He supposed it was better to have House angry and horny than simply angry.

House nipped Wilson on the earlobe, then kissed him on the mouth. "You've got a wife, _and_ me, and you _still _want a bit on the side, Jimmy, you fucking _slut_."

Wilson breathed into House's mouth. "House..."

"Tonight's _my_ turn," House breathed back, and Wilson felt electricity crackle through the inch of air between their mouths. His nipples tingled where House was fingering them, and his groin started to throb.

Propelled into the bedroom, Wilson stripped quickly while House nonchalantly pulled off his own clothes, then House fairly leaped at Wilson and pushed him down onto the bed. Wilson tried to move, and House bore down with his full weight; Wilson wriggled slightly, and House grabbed him by the wrists and held him down.

House's cock pulsated against his own, and Wilson closed his eyes; God, he was practically ready to come already.

"Not so fast," House hissed, and flipped Wilson over onto his front. Wilson pressed his hard-on into the mattress, simply wanting relief now, but House shoved a strong arm underneath his chest, flexing powerful muscles, pulling him onto his knees.

Wilson stayed still for a minute, listening to the rip of foil and the snap of latex, then shivered at cold gel on House's finger; and then, finally, clenching and relaxing at House's cock easing swiftly in and slowly out.

"Now, I've always thought my boss's undergrad daughter was hot," House murmured in Wilson's ear, and jutted his hips forward sharply. Wilson gasped in surprise and pain.

House went on, "But, God, I always had the sense to stay ten feet away at all times." _Thrust. _"You, on the other hand..." _thrust,_ "clearly have no common sense whatsoever," _thrust,_ "and are just led by your dick."

And on the last word House reached around with one hand, grasped Wilson's cock, and squeezed. Wilson let out a stifled cry.

"You're having an affair with _my_ fucking department head's teenage _daughter,_ Wilson, you fucker!" House reached out with his other hand to Wilson's head, and grabbed a fistful of ear and hair.

Sweat broke out on Wilson's forehead as his body shook from House's continuing thrusts. "I didn't know, not at first--"

"You fucking know now." House's palm ran the full length of Wilson's shaft and landed a fingertip on the very top. The world went black, then exploded into a starburst, as Wilson came with a strangled gasp, pumping into House's hand.

Barely able to stay on his hands and knees any more, Wilson tried to control his juddering muscles long enough to support House, who was now pressing his body along Wilson's back, stubble tickling the back of Wilson's neck. Then House climaxed with one last stupendous effort, and Wilson collapsed down onto the mattress.

House stayed sprawled on top of Wilson for a minute, then pulled out rather too sharply, and fell onto the bed beside Wilson.

Wilson lay for a few minutes regaining brain function, then muttered, "How did you find out?"

House didn't reply; Wilson interpreted the silence as smug. He tried again. "Does anyone else know?"

"Nope," House said. Definitely smug.

"Well I guess that's something to be grateful for," Wilson said grumpily.

House yawned. "You know, he's a terribly possessive father. His wife died when she was little, so he brought her up all by himself. She's the apple of his eye."

"Yes, I know."

"Nobody is good enough for her. If he finds out she's seeing you, a married man, he will cut you into little pieces and feed you to the birds."

"I know!"

"The sex must be really good, is all I can say." House wrapped an arm around Wilson's chest and settled comfortably down into the pillows. "And you know what? You'd better not _ever_ be found out, because Dawlish will never believe _I_ didn't have something to do with it."

* * *

House was sitting in the nephrology conference room, exhausted after a long shift, listening with less than half an ear to colleagues discussing the latest case of acute renal failure, when he saw Pearl walk past down the corridor outside. She was going towards her father's office; House knew Dawlish wasn't there.

House hesitated for a fraction of a second, then grabbed a file as a cover, got up and followed.

His initial outraged triumph at identifying her as Wilson's squeeze had faded, to be replaced by gnawing indignation. House could cope with Wilson's wife; she'd known him longer than he had, she'd gotten there first, and in any case it was obvious to him that their marriage was sleepwalking towards eventual doom.

Coping with Wilson's _girlfriend_ was an entirely different thing. It set a green acidic ball of barbed wire curdling in his stomach. She was a couple of years younger even than Wilson, and to House she was very young indeed. He'd noticed she was attractive in an abstract sort of way, _hey, Dawlish has a hot teenage daughter,_ but he hadn't really thought of her as a sexual being before: he'd only seen her in terms of her father. The idea of her with Wilson...

House strolled into Dawlish's office to find Pearl sitting in an armchair in the corner sorting through a pile of books and files in her bag. He put the file down on Dawlish's desk and turned to look at her. She glanced up at him, uninterested, seeing only a doctor in a white coat.

"You have to stop seeing James Wilson," House said, and somehow uttering the words intensified the burning ball inside his gut, like turning up a gas burner.

He watched successive expressions of shock, fright, outrage and hostility pass swiftly across her face.

He also couldn't help but think _wow, she is hot_. Beneath a baggy T-shirt and unflattering long skirt, there were curves in all the right places. In fact, a real sex kitten right in the midst of finding its way out. Trust Wilson to find out.

"Who are you?" she said eventually.

"I'm his friend. You're screwing up his marriage, ergo, his life." House kept it simple.

She glared at him, and said with some petulance, "Why does everyone have to keep telling me what to do? My dad, my tutors, and now you! I'm sick of it, I really am!"

She picked up a book and threw it on the floor.

"I don't give a damn about you and your pathetic teenage angst," House stated. "You're just getting a kick out of going behind your father's back. You don't give a damn about Wilson."

"You don't know anything about me!" she cried. "My life _sucks!_ And James is the only thing in it that makes me happy! And you are _nobody! _So get the hell out of my life and stop interfering!"

She actually stamped her foot. House hesitated, but found himself unusually unsure what to say next. Also he rather thought that Dawlish was likely to come in his office any minute, which would not be good.

A tactical retreat seemed wisest in the circumstances, so he withdrew, pondering what to do next.

Tackling Wilson rather than Pearl seemed like the best way forward, but events intervened before he figured out how.

* * *

That weekend, Wilson was on his way to the Dawlish house. It was a good time to meet Pearl; her father was usually working at that time, and he had a convenient Saturday afternoon excuse for Cath--that he was going to watch House play lacrosse. He'd been in the habit of this for a while, they usually went for a couple of beers afterwards. It was an excuse good for a few hours.

He got out of the cab two blocks away from the house, not wanting to have to give out the address he was going to. When he walked down, however, he found Pearl waiting outside for him.

"Thank God I caught you, Dad's here after all," she said, her tone dismayed.

"Oh." Damnit, Wilson had been semi-hard for the last half hour in anticipation. Also she was looking particularly attractive right now: her eyes were big and bright and she'd tied her hair back, pronouncing her cheekbones.

She sighed and looked forlorn. "Don't you know anywhere else we could go?"

Wilson started to shake his head, and then he stopped. He realized abruptly that there was, in fact, another apartment for which he had a key.

And House would be out playing lacrosse for the next couple of hours...

No, he couldn't do that. House would be furious. House disapproved heavily of his relationship with Pearl. There was no way he would countenance Wilson borrowing his room like this. It would be a betrayal.

Wilson looked at Pearl, her eyes hopeful, lips slightly parted in anticipation.

He figured House never had to know.

Cath had their car right now. "Can you drive us?" he asked.

* * *

House sat on the bleachers, watching his lacrosse captain argue with the field hockey captain about who had booked the pitch first. It appeared that the lacrosse team had the moral right, but the hockey players had turned up half an hour earlier and were already out playing. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, it didn't look like there would be lacrosse practice after all.

The lacrosse captain waved a disgusted hand and turned away. The hockey team played on. House sighed and started to gather his stuff together.

"Hey, Greg."

He looked up; it was Catherine. House had no wish to chat with Wilson's wife, and said curtly, "Hey."

"Is James not here?" she asked.

"Am I his keeper?" House snapped, not thinking ahead. "Does it look like he's here?"

"He said he was going to watch you this afternoon." Catherine's voice was flat.

Too late, House's brain clicked into gear. Fuck it, Wilson must be off with that silly bitch Pearl again. Well, how was he supposed to lie if Wilson didn't warn him? "Uh--"

"Don't worry," Cath said tiredly, and turned away. House looked towards her, and spotted her car on the roadside.

"Could you give me a ride home?" he asked, knowing it was ballsy but thinking it was worth asking. He'd jogged to the sports ground as his warm-up; he couldn't be bothered to jog back again. "Please?"

He half-expected to be told to fuck off, but after a small hesitation, Catherine said, "Sure."

She must want to talk to him. Probably to ask who the hell Wilson was fucking at the moment. Well, he could stonewall that if he had to. House grabbed his gear and followed her to the car.

"Did you have a good holiday, House?" Catherine asked, putting on her seatbelt.

This was a dig and House couldn't resist rising to the bait. He turned large innocent blue eyes on her. "Oh, _lovely,_ thank-you. And did you have a happy Hannukah?"

"Yes. Or at least, I would have," Catherine fixed him with a stony stare. "If James hadn't gone dashing off to spend Christmas with you."

"Very kind of you to let him go," House said with complete insincerity.

She glared at him, and pulled the car away from the curb. She asked with considerable naivety, "Could your girlfriend not have gone with you instead?"

"She was away, spending the holidays with her folks back west," House said. This was true, although the thought of inviting her to his parents house had never actually entered his head. He shuddered inwardly at the thought.

"Anyway, my Mom and Dad wanted to see Wilson," he added instead. "They adore him, you know." This was also true.

Cath looked straight at him, and said, "I bet they do, with you as a son."

Ooh, that was positively nasty. House beamed at her, delighted to have provoked such a reaction. "Are you suggesting I'm not a model son? Well, I'm hurt, I really am. Wilson is, of course, a model husband, which is why you're so happy with him right now."

Catherine turned her eyes back to the road and shrugged a little. "He spends way too much time with you, that's all."

House didn't like the tone of this one. If Wilson's marriage was going belly-up then he had no intention of being blamed for it. Especially when Wilson was off having sex with someone else right this minute. He slid a scalpel into his voice. "Nobody's forcing him to spend any time with anyone. Don't you blame your marital problems on _me._"

"I don't have marital problems!" Cath said furiously.

The hell she didn't. House was quite sure she knew Wilson was having an affair, with a woman. Why else would she be sneaking around the lacrosse field?

"Fine. Then quit moaning to me." House was firm. "He's a big boy; he's quite capable of telling me to fuck off if he wants to."

"No, he's not," Cath said, surprising House. "If you tell him you need him, he can't say no." She took a left turn, swinging the wheel with more than necessary force.

House thought this was a perceptive comment, and wondered if Catherine had thought of applying the same to herself. She had changed; she was quite different from the timid little mouse who had come down from Canada to join her fiancé a year ago. She was even different from the knowledgeable but self-conscious woman planning her wedding six months ago. She was... stronger. She didn't seem to be sheltering under Wilson's wing any more.

And he suspected that was actually why Wilson was less inclined to spend time with her now than previously. And preferred instead to spend time looking after the poor little girl with the nasty possessive father.

"So maybe you need to tell him that you need him," House said cautiously, wondering how on earth he had just ended up giving marriage guidance.

"Or you need to stop needing him," she countered. A thought apparently struck her. "James says you're thinking of doing a second certification, in Infectious Diseases? And that would be... someplace else?"

House nodded, suddenly sobered by this reminder. He was plotting a move to Boston. He was going to a conference in New Orleans in just a couple of weeks time to meet his girlfriend's contact who would also be there, and discuss the possibility.

"That's right," he acknowledged. "So... gimme another six months and maybe I'll be out of your hair."

Catherine looked at him for a long moment, and then said, "If only I believed that would actually happen."

House looked back, frowning, not altogether sure what she meant.

"Wherever you end up--in the next state, on the other side of the country, on the other side of the world." Cath waved an exasperated hand. "I just can't see it making a difference."

And House found himself genuinely surprised, to the extent that he didn't actually know what to say.

They pulled up outside his house. House put a hand on the door handle, and remembered something that had been annoying him.

"Hey, Wilson left a bunch of files at my place a few days ago, they're cluttering the place up. Could you take them back with you?"

Cath shrugged and put the brake on. "Sure."

House got out of the car, and then Cath called, "Actually, no--I need to do some shopping. He can pick them up some other time."

"Okay." House shut the car door, and Cath pulled away.

* * *

House headed inside and up to his room in the attic. As he climbed the last set of stairs, he wondered absently if Catherine was sufficiently annoyed with her husband to sleep with someone else out of revenge. Someone like his best friend, perhaps.

Of course, she hated House's guts, and he didn't find her remotely attractive... but even so, the mere idea kept House fantasizing for ten seconds or so, and it was in those ten seconds that he opened his door and strolled in several paces, before being startled out of his reverie by the sight in front of him.

Wilson was there, half naked on the couch, and a woman--_Dawlish's daughter, _fuck!--half naked, on top of him. In _his _room! What the hell were they doing in his room--!

"WILSON!" House bellowed.

Neither of them had seen him before he shouted. Wilson jumped so high in the air that the woman fell right off him onto the floor. Wilson sat up, apparently torn between helping her up and looking at House: he opted for the former first, pushing a blanket into her hands.

"Get some clothes on and get the hell out of my room," House snarled at her. She looked back at him, apparently quite unafraid. She wrapped the blanket around herself, bent to pick up a small puddle of clothes, and marched into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

House didn't want her in his bedroom but he also didn't want to watch her getting dressed, so he let it go. He turned the full force of his glare on Wilson.

"You had better have a damn good explanation for this."

The look on Wilson's face said plainly that he didn't. "Um, we needed somewhere to go..."

"You _needed!_ You _needed! _You need to get your head out of your ass!" House shouted, and Pearl emerged from the bedroom at that point. He had to give her credit; she was fully dressed and looked immaculate.

She completely ignored House, paused to say to Wilson, "Call me, James," then she marched out of the door. Her shoes sounded loudly on the stairs outside, and then faded into the distance.

Alone, House stared at Wilson.

"Wilson, how could you?" House couldn't get his head around it all. He remembered Wilson inviting him to spend the night at his apartment a while ago when his wife had been away, and had a nauseating thought. "You sick fucker, did you want to do her in _my _bed?"

"Christ, no." Wilson looked genuinely horrified. "House, it was just a place to go. I even said to her, we won't go in the bedroom--just the couch--"

"Oh well, that's all fucking right then!" House bellowed, and slammed a fist down on the back of the couch. It was dawning on him that this had been a really, really close shave. "Wilson, your wife came looking for you at my lacrosse practice, she gave me a lift back and damn nearly came up here!"

Wilson looked suitably abashed. "House, I'm sorry..."

House took a deep breath, and said, "Wilson, you cannot keep on fucking her or you will get into very serious grave deep trouble, either with your wife, or her father, or both. And I'd happily stand back and let them teach you a damn good lesson, except that they will both blame _me_ and I will get into very serious grave deep trouble too."

"I know," Wilson whispered. "I'll stop seeing her."

"Fine. Good." This wasn't enough. "But even if she was someone else, even if you weren't married, for Chrissake..." House heard his voice quiver, and swallowed.

When he spoke again, his voice was perfectly level. "This is not why you have a key to my room."

Wilson was silent for a moment, then said very quietly, "If you want, I'll give it back."

And he fished into a pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys.

The words and the jangle of keys struck House as hard as any physical blow. He pictured Wilson taking the key off the bunch, handing it over. And it was as if such a thing would leave _no hope at all_ that Wilson would ever come back.

It was irrational, perhaps, but so highly symbolic that House could not contemplate allowing it to happen. He remembered the squabble over Wilson getting that key in the first place (they'd kissed for the first time in the aftermath, Christ...).

House discovered in that moment that he would let Wilson get away with a great deal, so long as he was left with the hope that Wilson would come back.

"No, keep it," he said, his tone gruff. "Just--_don't fucking do it again._"

Wilson looked so relieved that House realized belatedly that Wilson had been as mortified as he was at the idea of giving it back.

"Of course not," Wilson said, as sincere as House had ever heard him. "I screwed up. I'm sorry."

House couldn't cope with any more of this right now. He waved a hand. "Go. Just go. Dump your girlfriend and make up with your wife. I'll see you on Monday."

Wilson rose silently and left.

House went and poured himself a drink. Three shots of bourbon later, he felt a little better.

He decided he'd really been outrageously lenient with Wilson; and spent the rest of the evening wondering where, if anywhere, he would draw the line.

END OF PART 7

* * *

A/N: TBC. Next part: House goes to the New Orleans conference. Somehow Wilson ends up there too.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 8

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 8  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Pairing/Rating**: House/Wilson, NC-17.  
**Words**: this part 4400  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** masses of credit to triedunture  
**A/N: **Part 8 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.  
**Spoilers: **Strange though it may seem for a backstory, this part contains spoilers for season 5. Spoilerphobes may therefore wish to skip this part.

**CLARIFICATION NOTE:** I have received a number of questions about the date I posted this chapter. I would like to clarify that it was based on spoilers, as I warned for at the time. All the ideas in this fic which also appear in the episode are those of the writers in House, and I claim no credit at all: my intention was merely to elaborate and build upon canon, as is the nature of fanfic. I never intended to dupe or mislead anyone about authorship, nor am I psychic. If I spoiled anything for you, I can only now apologise.

**Summary: **House goes to a conference in New Orleans. Wilson turns up too.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food - Part 8**

House had gotten through a hard day of interminably boring conference papers, seminars, and breakout sessions, and figured he was due a break. He was in New Orleans, after all. He found a tiny basement cellar bar where he drank decent bourbon and listened to some weird experimental jazz saxophone through the evening.

He headed back to his hotel later on, humming cheerfully and feeling he could now face another day tomorrow, when a voice hailed from off the lobby, from the direction of the hotel bar.

"Hey, House!"

It was Wilson. Surprised, House went in to find Wilson sitting on a barstool, glass at his elbow, a large overnight bag under the stool. House sat down on the next stool and picked up Wilson's glass. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Just felt like a trip. Never been to New Orleans." Wilson was smiling and bright, but House knew immediately this was a front, albeit a very convincing one. "All that jazz. Shame to pass up the chance."

"You don't even know anyone here." House took a gulp.

Wilson waved to the bartender, who brought another glass to House's elbow and tipped bourbon in liberally.

"Nope," Wilson agreed. "But I'm bound to meet a few people, aren't I? Multi-disciplinary convention, aimed at early-career professionals. Lots to be interested in. And I can sign up as a day delegate tomorrow."

"So wide ranging as to be utterly useless to everybody. The most boring conference in the history of the universe," House corrected him.

"Well, I needed to get away for a few days." Wilson dipped his head and dropped his voice. "Mom called... Jonathan's divorce came through."

"Fuck," House said gravely, knowing Wilson would recognize this as the sympathy it was intended to be. Jonathan was Wilson's brother. House knew Wilson's parents well enough to know they would be very saddened by one of their sons getting divorced.

"Indeed," Wilson agreed, his brown eyes dulled with sadness.

House could see this wasn't the whole story, but decided to leave it for now. Plenty of time to find out. And anyway it might be nice to have some company.

"I'm particularly bored of having to go to all the nephrology sessions," House explained, feeling the need to move the conversation away from Wilson's brother's impending divorce. "I was hoping to get to more of the infectious diseases ones, but they all seem to clash. And if I skip too many of the nephrology, someone will sneak to Dawlish."

It was still important to stay on the right side of his boss. House was now very close to getting his certification in nephrology, but not quite there yet.

"I'm gonna try and go to more infectious diseases tomorrow," House went on, and then stopped. There was one infectious disease session he was attending primarily to meet a doctor from Mass Gen who might, just _might_, be persuaded to take him on to do a residency there.

But he didn't want to mention this to Wilson. Not unless it actually happened. House had been angling for this for a while now, and knew Wilson was torn between encouraging him and getting depressed about the prospect of House living four hours journey away in Boston.

There was no point possibly upsetting Wilson unnecessarily. Especially not right now, when Wilson was downhearted about other stuff.

Fortunately Wilson had a question on his mind and didn't notice House's hesitation.

"House, can I crash in your hotel room? With three thousand doctors in town, I couldn't get a room anywhere." Wilson paused, then added, "Assuming you don't have a hot babe lined up to join you, of course."

House grinned widely, pleased that Wilson was apparently unsure if he'd be welcome or not. Things had been a little strained between them on that side of things since the whole affair-with-House's-boss's-daughter thing. House wasn't at all sure if Wilson had even broken up with Pearl yet: it wasn't a conversation he wanted to risk.

"No, that position is vacant," House said solemnly. "I found it hard getting a room too, though. I've only got a single."

"Then I'll crash on the floor," Wilson said deadpan.

House drained his glass and stood up. He muttered, "Room two-oh-four, see you in five," and left.

* * *

Five minutes later, there was a soft rap on House's hotel room. House opened it and there was Wilson, big brown eyes in full demure mode. "Room service."

House hooked an arm around Wilson's neck and pulled him in through the doorway for a kiss. "What kind of service do you offer?"

"Laundry, ironing, shoe cleaning." Wilson leaned back against the door to close it. "Sandwiches, pizza--"

"I want something off-menu."

"A good hard fuck?" Wilson muttered, and the words alone made House's cock almost bolt upright.

House leaned into Wilson, putting his palms up against Wilson's chest and practically smothering Wilson's face with his own. "So long as it doesn't appear on my bill like that."

Wilson grinned. "I think I can accept payment in kind." He eased House back slightly. "Just let me freshen up after the journey."

Wilson broke away and headed towards the bathroom, taking his bag with him.

House, who had already removed shoes and jacket, divested himself of his remaining clothes. He turned off the lights except for the bedside lamp, and got into bed, settling himself down comfortably. Wilson could take a long time in the bathroom sometimes.

Wilson emerged only a few minutes later, though; face pink, hair damp, and naked. House looked at him through slitted eyes, and Wilson walked towards the bed.

With no space next to House in the single bed, Wilson slid in on top of House. House sucked in his breath as Wilson's firm thighs and smooth chest came to rest on top of him, and then Wilson's semi-hard cock pulsed up against his hip. He reached around and placed his palms on Wilson's beautifully silky smooth ass, pulling him close.

"Hmmph," Wilson muttered close to House's ear.

House merely breathed back, then tilted his body to slide his own cock alongside Wilson's. The two of them both gasped involuntarily at the sudden sensation, the thrill of skin stroking skin. House felt his cock jerk of its own accord, pushing at Wilson's. He raised his hips, jutting against Wilson above him; fuck, he could probably come just like this, really quickly--

"Whoa," Wilson said, and raised himself on his hands, pulling back. "Not yet; that's not what I was offering..."

_A good hard fuck._ House shivered a little, and groped under the pillow for a condom and the lube. He handed both to Wilson, who sat back on his heels, rolled the condom on briskly, slicked a couple of fingers, and slid them up House's ass.

House growled a little, but took it, relaxed, pulled his own legs back, and then Wilson removed the fingers, sat back and--_oof-_-God, so different, slid in his dick instead. Wilson started to thrust, and House realized Wilson was intent on a giving him a pounding. And somehow House, mellow from jazz and bourbon, was in just the right frame of mind to take it.

Flat on his back, House could barely move; the bed was so narrow there was nowhere to move to. Grasping the back of the bed with one hand and his own cock in the other, he lay back and gave himself up to the sensation; Wilson's cock up his ass, firm and sensual and pushing every nerve ending to a high point from which House never wanted to come down--

House brought himself off with a gasp and a choke, sticky mess spilling onto his stomach. His body shook and trembled as Wilson continued to pound. House heard incoherent noises babbling out of his own mouth. "Wilson, hell, _argmumphargh--_"

"House--" Wilson was losing his composure, going goggle-eyed.

With an effort, House clenched as hard as he could, and had the supreme satisfaction of making Wilson come with a shout. The next minute, Wilson collapsed on top of House and knocked all the breath out of him.

House couldn't push him off without pushing him off the bed entirely, so uttered a loud "OOF" instead to convey he was being squashed; Wilson shifted his weight slightly, but only slightly, apparently unable to do much more.

They lay in a mutual daze for a while, then House pushed Wilson again. "I can't breathe."

"You want to breathe?" Wilson muttered.

"No, I want to die of asphyxiation. No good coming here to stave off my boredom and then killing me--"

"You can't breathe, but you can, apparently, talk," Wilson said, his voice suddenly short. He rolled off House, dropping himself gently off the bed and onto the floor. He struggled to his feet and headed to the bathroom.

He emerged a short while later, headed for the closet, and found a spare blanket. He then proceeded to fold it up and put it on the floor. House watched with a raised eyebrow, and had to ask, "What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna crash on the floor," Wilson said, sitting down on the blanket.

"What?"

Wilson shrugged. "There's not really enough room in the bed, is there?"

House opened his mouth and shut it again. They'd slept in a single bed plenty of times before, back when Wilson had the smallest room in the shared house; they'd curled up together like spoons--

So Wilson didn't want to do that, and House wasn't about to beg, especially not with Wilson in the stupid fucking mood he was obviously in at the moment.

"Fine," said House, and rolled over and went to sleep.

* * *

Next morning somehow everything was wrong. Wilson was peevish; House was snappy. House grabbed the bathroom first and emerged to find Wilson impatient and lecturing on how House should have let _him_ go first because he took more time to get ready.

"Like that's my fault?" House was incredulous. "If you just skipped blow drying your hair for once--"

Wilson stomped into the bathroom and banged the door shut.

House took a moment to cool down, got dressed and decided there was no reason for hang around for Wilson. He got his stuff together and walked around the room trying to find a pen. He had taken the hotel room issue pen the previous day and lost it. Unaccountably the hotel had failed to anticipate this eventuality and it hadn't been replaced yet.

His eye fell on Wilson's bag sitting on the floor by the bed; Wilson would have a pen. Wilson, ever prepared for all eventualities, _always _had a pen. And several spare ones. House took the bag, a large black holdall, and pulled it open.

He forgot about pens when he found an envelope lurking at the very bottom of the bag. A large, official-looking envelope with the stamp of a law firm in the top corner.

Very odd. What kind of legal papers would Wilson be carrying around with him? House was puzzled. He looked at the flap of the envelope; it had been slit neatly open. Practically an invitation to look...

Divorce papers.

_Fuck. _House flipped rapidly through, just enough to be sure what he was looking at. Definitely divorce. Wilson's wife had filed for divorce. And Wilson hadn't said a word.

House closed the envelope and sat back on his heels, his mind working rapidly. Doubtless Wilson had done his usual thing and confessed about his affair with Pearl: Cath had already been suspicious, House knew that. Apparently she'd been closer to the end of her tether than House had thought, and not willing to forgive this time.

This explained it; explained why Wilson had come haring down the continent to a conference he really had very little reason to attend. And this stupid fucking mood he was in. He was not dealing with it.

And, fuck! Right on top of Jonathan's marriage also ending. No _wonder _Wilson was trying to avoid this. The Wilson parents were going to be devastated.

Maybe Wilson was going to try and fix it, wanted to resolve it... but his wife was clearly not in a conciliatory mood right now, so Wilson had come away for a few days...

House tucked the envelope neatly back inside Wilson's bag exactly how it had been, and left the bag on the floor, as close as possible to how Wilson had left it.

Then he left for the conference. He briefly considered leaving a note, but couldn't think what on earth he'd write. And in any case he didn't have a pen.

* * *

House flitted around from session to session that day, putting in enough of an appearance at the nephrology events to show willingness. Occasionally he saw Wilson in the distance, also going from session to session, but they didn't meet.

House only cared about one event that day, the Infectious Diseases seminar in the late afternoon where he was hoping to meet Dr. Andrea Rusch, who might be persuaded to take him on to do a residency at Mass Gen. He'd been put in touch with her by his girlfriend (who wasn't actually his girlfriend anymore; she'd finally dumped him a few days before, after he'd asked her one too many questions about Infectious Diseases. He decided there was no need to mention that).

House hated the whole concept of networking; having to know the right people and worse, suck up to them. He felt strongly that he should just be able to breeze into Mass Gen and take their Infectious Diseases department by storm, and screw having to actually get along with anyone there.

But it wasn't easy. Even when you were brilliant, and you knew you were brilliant, and everyone else around you tacitly acknowledged you were brilliant too. It still wasn't easy to find somewhere, someone, willing to take you on to do a second residency. Especially when your short career was already checkered by an expulsion from med school.

"For what?" people inevitably asked, often ready to be sympathetic. Assuming youthful high-jinks, med school escapades gotten out of hand.

"For cheating," he had to admit, because they'd find out from Hopkins sooner or later, and you had to be pretty damn brilliant to come back from that one.

House knew he had to make an impact at the seminar that afternoon. As luck would have it, he was heading along there when Wilson appeared, hurrying alongside his elbow.

"Hey, House--"

"Hey," House said shortly. He didn't have time for any more shit from Wilson right now. "Busy. See you later."

Leaving Wilson standing in a corridor, House duly arrived late at the seminar. Only by a few minutes though. He sat at the back and interrupted a few times, then relentlessly hammered virtually every panel member with questions. He ruffled a few feathers, but he knew his questions had been pertinent, and if they'd exposed some level of ignorance of the field, well, it wasn't his field. That was precisely why he needed this residency.

Afterwards a tall woman with gray hair in a bun came up to him. "Gregory House? I'm Andrea Rusch, I believe I was supposed to be looking out for you here. You certainly made that easy enough."

They shook hands, and headed off towards the coffee table. Once ensconced in a chair with cup in hand, she fixed him with a penetrating eye.

"So just how badly have you screwed up in nephrology, that you're looking for a career change?"

House had been expecting this. He took a deep breath, and explained. That he did enjoy nephrology and was excellent at his job, thank you very much. "Just ask Seth Dawlish, my boss; he'll confirm that." (House crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped that Dawlish was still in blissful ignorance about Wilson and his damn daughter). But at the end of the day, it was all about kidneys; and House was interested in a lot more than that.

"I want to be a diagnostician, and unaccountably there's nowhere I can specialize in diagnostics," he explained to her. "So until the medical profession gets its collective ass in gear and sets up a department someplace, or until I'm out there running my own diagnostic department, infectious diseases is the closest I'm going to get."

He knew it was risky, but he also gauged her as the type to be amused, rather than offended, by the nerve and ambition of the young doctor in front of her.

"Well, you've got balls, I'll give you that," she said, not smiling but with a certain twinkle in her eye. She glanced at her neat little gold watch. "House, I have to meet my husband now for dinner back at the hotel. He works at Mass Gen too; he's an oncologist. Perhaps you'd like to come with us?"

Result. House did a mental air punch.

Andrea Rusch's husband, Vasilius Rusch, turned out to be a tall elderly man with an impressive gray beard who took one look at House's two-day stubble and immediately told House he had a long way to go to compete. House took to him instantly, unusually, and they had a surprisingly enjoyable dinner.

It was marred only by Wilson appearing on the other side of the room, apparently looking for House; House caught his eye and shook his head firmly. Wilson nodded tightly, and vanished again.

House got the Hopkins thing out of the way over dessert, and although Andrea pursed her lips and looked disapproving (he knew she'd be on the phone to them, and was glad he'd told the truth), she turned out to be a Michigan graduate herself and approved of where he'd ended up. And Vasilius actually said, "Reminds me of that time when I--" before his wife poked him in the ribs and he shut up.

House was actually starting to feel good about this.

After dinner they went to the hotel bar. House immediately spotted Wilson there, sitting nursing a glass of a whisky with a bottle at his elbow. House could see Wilson's face reflected in a ten foot antique mirror nearby; he looked melancholy. The room was large, and Wilson didn't see them come in.

House hastened to grab a table on the other side of the room behind a large pot plant, and angled himself away from Wilson.

As he chatted with the Ruschs, House was vaguely aware that a man had stationed himself at the jukebox and was relentlessly playing the same Billy Joel song over and over again, and that Wilson was getting increasingly annoyed with the jukebox guy. He dimly heard Wilson complaining, and then suddenly voices were raised in argument.

House looked around just in time to see Wilson fling up an arm, and then the large antique mirror shattered. A bourbon bottle seemed to stay suspended in the air for a second, until it came crashing down to the floor along with multiple pieces of dulled mirrored glass.

Wilson had thrown the bottle. Wilson had broken the mirror! House stared across at Wilson, agog.

Wilson was on his feet, his cheeks pink, his voice raised in recrimination at Jukebox Guy. "I told you to _stop playing that song!_"

Fuck it, Wilson had completely lost his temper! House was thrilled. Then someone previously completely uninvolved threw a shot glass across the room, another guy threw another glass in the opposite direction, and the bar descended into chaos and confusion. If House hadn't been with the Ruschs, he would have been only too happy to join in.

"What's happening?" asked Andrea, who had her back to the room.

"Some young hooligan just started a fight," her husband said, rising to his feet. "Shall we go and continue this conversation elsewhere?"

For a few seconds House contemplated the appalling idea that Wilson might actually scupper both his nephrology certification (if Dawlish ever found out about Pearl) and also his shot at infectious diseases (if the Ruschs found out who the hooligan was).

He took a deep breath and followed them out of the bar.

* * *

They went to another bar down the street, but the cozy momentum of conversation had been lost, and House decided to cut it short. He tried to be as friendly as possible, said he'd see them both at tomorrow's sessions, and could only hope he hadn't been too abrupt.

He returned to the hotel and found the bar quiet, but with broken glass and upturned chairs spread liberally across the room. He wasn't surprised to hear from the bartender that Wilson had been arrested.

"Although he wrote out a check out for the mirror before they took him away," the bartender added, and House rolled his eyes. Typical Wilson.

So, what to do? Well, Wilson would call his wife from jail, ask her to bail him... or would he?

Those divorce papers sitting at the bottom of Wilson's bag.

House headed off to the police station, which was conveniently just down the road. He mused on the way that this was probably the first time Wilson had ever been arrested. House had kind of lost track of how many times the same thing had happened to himself...

* * *

Wilson emerged from the police station, dazed and confused, exhausted with shock, and feeling grubby and cold. He found a grizzled lanky figure leaning against the wall waiting for him.

"I took care of it," was the first thing House said.

Wilson looked at House as if seeing him for the first time, peering at his face, trying to figure out what on earth was going on. They started walking down the street towards the hotel, falling naturally into step.

"You bailed me out?" Wilson was incredulous, although this was tempered by a feeling of complete flatness. His adrenalin had long since run out.

"Yeah. Charges will be dropped." House flipped Wilson a card. "Call him."

"Thanks." Wilson glanced at it; a lawyer's card. He pocketed it, not wanting to think about practicalities right now. "Um--this is very, er, kind of you."

"I was bored," House said flatly. "Couldn't let you rot in jail when you could be breaking more mirrors and causing more bar fights."

"Of course not." Wilson agreed, and there was a tightness in his voice.

The last few days had been a nightmarish fog. The coldness at home had been almost unbearable. He was still trapped in this ridiculous affair with Pearl, who was hinting strongly that if he dumped her she would tell her father. He was sad and sick to the stomach at the news about Jonathan, and had spent a difficult half hour on the phone comforting Mom about that. And then to cap it all, Cath had presented him with those papers...

Wilson was hanging on like grim death to the idea that after a couple of days away he would come home, Cath would have calmed down, they could patch things up, and nobody else need ever know about the fucking envelope at the bottom of his bag.

And although he was immensely relieved that his wife now didn't have to know about this ridiculous fracas in New Orleans, he was also bemused and suspicious at House. _House, _bailing him out?--House, who was always so much quicker to borrow money than to lend? Wilson suspected the price he would have to pay in return would be endless ribbing; hours of amusement for House.

House's comment about being _bored_ grated on Wilson like fingernails down a window pane.

* * *

Back in their room, House pushed the door shut behind them and Wilson remarked, "So if you bailed me out because you're bored, then I guess I should make life interesting for you."

House smiled a wolfish smile, and remarked, "I'm just sorry I didn't get to see you behind the prison bars."

House's comment served only to confirm Wilson's conviction that House was out to get as much entertainment as possible out of his predicament. The smile Wilson cracked back had very little humor in it. "Sorry to disappoint you about that. How did you know what happened?... were you there, in the bar?"

"I was," House admitted. "I saw you throw the bottle. But I was with some people, just boring people from the conference." He shrugged. "It was tedious, but I had to get rid of them first."

"The police put me in handcuffs when they took me away, you know," Wilson said casually, as if he was talking about the weather. He pulled up a sleeve, showed a red mark around his wrist.

He watched House's blue eyes grow a little wider.

"Really," House said eventually, and his voice sounded suddenly hoarse. He sat down on the side of the bed.

"They took my belt, of course, when they locked me up... I didn't bother to put it back on when they gave it back." Wilson reached into a pocket and withdrew a narrow leather belt, coiled up in a circle.

House swallowed.

"Haven't got the handcuffs any more, of course. But..." Wilson unwound the end of the belt a couple of times, and drew it across his arm. House stared, mesmerized, as Wilson tied the end of the belt around his wrist.

Black leather gleamed against Wilson's pale skin. The belt was too stiff to knot more than very loosely, but that didn't matter: Wilson could see the effect right there in House's pants. _Bored now, House?_

House reached out and grasped other end of the belt. He gave it a tug, and pulled Wilson towards him. "Jimmy Wilson, I'm arresting you in the name of the law. I demand you, um, come quietly."

Wilson couldn't help but smile at that, in fact he might even have laughed, if it hadn't been for the knot clenched inside his gut.

It deserved a response in kind, however. "Yes, Officer House." Wilson reached down with his free hand, and cupped House's groin. "But can _you_ come quietly?"

And Wilson unzipped House's fly and dropped to his knees. House shut his eyes and clutched at Wilson's hair with one hand and grasped the belt in the other, as Wilson practically swallowed his cock.

It didn't take long; Wilson knew exactly just what House liked, how to kiss the head _ever so_ gently, then suck hard, up and down House's shaft while cupping his balls in one hand. And then a finger thrust up the ass at the exact second to bring House over the edge, probably sooner than he'd actually wanted. House didn't exactly come quietly, but he didn't shout; instead he tugged at the belt and groaned, and scrabbled at Wilson's scalp with his fingernails.

Afterwards, House gasped, "Now that would've been a fucking useful talent to have in prison. You'd have been somebody's bitch in no time."

_I'm so glad I'm not fucking well boring you._ Wilson was certain that if House hadn't been bored this evening, Wilson would probably still be rotting inside that jail cell now.

"I wasn't inside long enough to worry about dropping the soap in the shower," Wilson muttered, and got up to sit on the bed next to House. He sat back and unzipped his own fly. House lent him a hand, but Wilson really wasn't in the mood, and the resulting orgasm was good only in the sense that any was better than none.

House fell asleep soon after; Wilson lay awake for a long time.

* * *

After the conference, House waited for divorce news, but nothing happened; he guessed that Wilson had negotiated himself a stay of execution. As a result, House never did get around to mentioning he had seen the papers in Wilson's bag. By the time the divorce actually happened, six months later, they seemed unimportant.

It was to be many, many years before Wilson found out that House had seen that set of divorce papers in New Orleans.

END OF PART 8. TBC.

A/N: Next part: House moves to Boston.

Wilson discovers that House saw the divorce papers twenty years later, in Beauty Spots (2/2)


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 9  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** the superb triedunture  
**A/N: **Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.

**Summary: **House loses his job and his home. Wilson is there for him.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 9**

Wilson was ambling through the cafeteria one lunchtime when House appeared beside him and put a large sandwich down on Wilson's tray.

"You're buying today," said House, a casual expression completely failing to conceal obvious delight. "I'm celebrating. Exam results are back. Finally got my board certification. I'm now a nephrology specialist. About fucking time!"

"Congratulations!" said Wilson, genuinely pleased, and headed towards the cashier. House vanished temporarily, then reappeared bearing two large slices of chocolate cake which he added to the tray. Wilson wondered in vague amusement how much of one slice House would allow him.

"So, does that mean you'll be off to Boston soon?" Wilson asked hesitantly as they stood in the queue. "For the Infectious Diseases residency?"

"Probably," House met his eye. "But not for a while. Have to pass interviews with God knows how many people first. Andrea Rusch is doing the paperwork on it, but she said she'd actually prefer to take me on in the fall, as she's going to be away in Europe all summer. It should work out well--Dawlish has asked me to stay on for a few months, just on a short-term contract--one of his fellows has gone off on maternity leave, and their cover can't start until the fall."

Wilson was pleased at this extension of time with House. He paid for their lunches and they headed towards a table. Once they were seated, Wilson said in an undertone, "And I've got a reason to celebrate too... I think I can finally see a way of breaking up with Pearl."

"You're not still seeing her!" House bit into a sandwich with great relish.

"House, that's _my_ sandwich!" Wilson snatched it back. "I haven't been able to figure out how to break up with her gently. I can't just dump her or she's liable to go tell her dad just out of spite." He spread out his hands. "But now--she wants to transfer to another school. She's figured out while she stays at Columbia living with her dad, nothing's gonna change in her life... so she wants to move somewhere on the west coast next semester. That'll be the perfect opportunity to break up with her. She'll want a new start, make new friends, form new relationships out there. In fact, she's already hinted it might be best if we break up before then."

"Will Dawlish let her go?" House was skeptical.

"He's not altogether happy about it, but he's already agreed, apparently; she can twist him around her little finger when she tries." Wilson bit into his sandwich. "I can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel."

Wilson was pleased for another reason too, although not one he wanted to share with House right now: he and Cath had patched things up enough that she was holding fire on the divorce papers. Once Pearl was gone, surely he would be able to spend enough time with his wife to really mend their relationship. Wilson firmly quashed the possibility that having House moving two hundred miles away might also help; he didn't want to think about it in those terms.

* * *

As a resident, everything House had done had been signed off by an attending doctor. Seth Dawlish, head of a large and busy department, had rarely been involved himself with House's work. House abruptly found this had changed now he himself could make decisions. He was still closely supervised, his decisions were still scrutinized, and Dawlish now chose to take a personal interest in this young doctor who had unaccountably done extremely well in the residency exams, and yet was now looking to do a second speciality elsewhere.

Unfortunately for House, Dawlish didn't like what he found. House had to endure several lectures on laziness and corner-cutting. And when House found himself summoned to the principal's office for the fourth time in a month, he went with a great sense of foreboding. As he arrived, he spotted Pearl leaving her father's office and going into the small meeting room next door. It could just be a coincidence, but it gave House a definite bad feeling.

In Dawlish's office, he found his boss cold and grim rather than hot and angry, and that too added to House's unease.

"House, what the hell is this?" Dawlish waved a patient chart in the air.

House looked at it. "It's my patient."

"This is an experimental treatment. I did not authorize this! In fact, I have said explicitly more than once that it is not to be used in this hospital." Dawlish looked House in the eye. "I've been looking at your file. You've been warned about this kind of thing before, on numerous occasions."

"It worked, didn't it?" House was indignant. "The patient's improving right now--"

Dawlish leaned back in his chair and regarded House coolly. "You're fired, House. Direct disobedience, contravening my orders. I don't put up with this sort of shit."

House immediately felt sick to the stomach. _Fired._ Another damn blot on his record. Would Mass Gen still be prepared to take him? Would Andrea Rusch change her mind? He still had interviews to go through--he really needed her personal support--Dawlish could be fucking up his whole future. House remembered Pearl outside the room and suddenly he was sure she'd told her father about Wilson. Anger rose swiftly through this body; Dawlish taking out his petty paternalistic jealousy on House--

"This isn't because of me and that patient," House said furiously. "This is because of your damn daughter, isn't it?"

The look of surprise on Dawlish's face immediately told House he was wrong. House felt his stomach plummet. Damn it all to hell! Wilson hadn't fucked up his job, he'd lost it all by himself. And worse, he'd just alerted Dawlish to the fact that there was something about Pearl--

"What have _you_ got to do with my daughter?" Dawlish said slowly, and with a thundercloud dawning on his face. He stood up and strode over to the door to the adjoining meeting room. Pearl, seated at the table with a pile of books in front of her, looked up in surprise. "Sweetie?--come in here for a second."

House's brain was racing; he'd already lost his job, he was doomed anyway. But Dawlish still didn't know about Wilson and Pearl. And if Dawlish found out, well--Wilson was a student here in this hospital and would be for the next couple of years; Dawlish had enough influence to make life very difficult for him...

Pearl came into her father's office, twisting her hands together, looking very apprehensive. House stared at her, and hoped she had the intelligence to follow what he was about to do.

"Pearl, honey, do you know this man?" Dawlish jerked a thumb in House's direction.

"Um, yes, he's Dr. House." Pearl looked at House, her eyes wide and frightened.

"And how do you know him?" Dawlish probed.

"I made a pass at her," House butted in. Pearl stared at House in surprise. He mentally crossed his fingers that she didn't pipe up to contradict him, and went on, "A couple of months ago. I was drunk in a bar. She told me to get lost, of course."

Thank fuck she was quick witted enough to take her line.

"That's right, Daddy," she said, and her voice rang unexpectedly clear. "I knew he was one of your doctors. I didn't want to upset you by telling you."

"By God, if you'd told me sooner--" Dawlish stopped and swallowed. He then fixed House with a ferocious glare. "I'd have fired you before you ever got your damn certification."

House looked away, taking a second to try and appreciate this silver lining.

"As it is--I've got a reference request for you sitting on my desk from Dr. Andrea Rusch at Mass Gen," Dawlish went on. "I was going to tell her you were a lazy son-of-a-bitch, too keen to take short-cuts and too clever for your own good, and she'd better keep a damn close eye on you. Now--I'm going to tell her you're an irresponsible jackass and she'd be out of her mind if she took you on. Get the hell out of my office."

House blindly turned on his heel and left.

* * *

Firings were hot topics on the hospital grapevine, and Wilson heard the news within the hour. He immediately rang home to tell his wife he'd be late, would probably crash at House's, and headed straight to House's room. He wasn't particularly surprised to find House wasn't there, and settled down on House's couch with a book. It had been a long day, and he soon fell asleep.

It was dark when he was woken by House stumbling through the door. Wilson stirred as House shut the door and came inside. House didn't react to finding Wilson on his couch, and Wilson merely peered up at House. House shrugged off his jacket and his shoes, and flopped down on the couch next to Wilson. He smelt of whiskey and tobacco. He put his head in Wilson's lap and his legs up on the couch, and fell asleep within a few minutes. Wilson spent a little while stroking House's head, and soon drifted off again himself.

A few hours later, Wilson woke again, this time by House nuzzling his neck. He felt the rasp of House's stubble rubbing across his jawline, and knew this was House's way of saying _Thanks for being here_.

Wilson nuzzled him back. _You're welcome_.

House moved up Wilson's neck and nibbled his earlobe. Wilson closed his eyes again and stayed perfectly still, lest the spell break. A minute later, he felt House's mouth press down on his own, blotting out his breath, covering his airway. They kissed for a long time, nestled next to each other in the quiet and the dark.

After a while, Wilson felt House's cock start to harden and press up against his thigh. He thought House could probably feel the same happening to him. Presently House reached down and undid the buttons on Wilson's jeans; Wilson breathed deeply. House eased Wilson's jeans and boxers down and pulled out Wilson's cock. Then he moved downwards, dipped his head and took it in his mouth. Wilson gasped at the sudden rush of blood to his groin. Now _that_ was a turn-up for the books; House going down on him without being asked. House rolled his mouth back and forth, lapping, licking; Wilson groaned in anticipation as House put his tongue to the tip, cupped his balls in a hand. Then House rammed a finger up his ass, and even though he'd been expecting it, Wilson was still flooded with a sudden, intense, frenzy of emotion; his hips jolted involuntarily and he came.

As Wilson lay gasping, House spat into a handkerchief, then pulled himself upright and swiftly removed his own jeans and boxers. Wilson forced himself not to lapse into unconsciousness and flattened himself down into the sofa cushions, as House moved stealthily up Wilson's body to straddle his face. Wilson took a deep breath, tipped his head back as far as he could, and House thrust directly downwards into his mouth and right down his throat. House let out a strangled cry, and thrust again; Wilson concentrated on not gagging. A few more thrusts later, House pulled out and came all over Wilson's chest, then crashed down on the sofa next to Wilson.

Wilson moved to kiss House on the mouth. Then quiet darkness rolled over them both, and they each lapsed into sticky sleep.

* * *

They were woken by a phone call very early the following morning. It was more bad news. House was told by a bureaucrat devoid of any human sympathy that as he was no longer a hospital employee, he would have to move out of the shared hospital house.

"I thought you had a friend in the accommodation office?" Wilson said, his tone dismayed, as he watched House pace the room.

"I used to. She left a while ago. They've given me a week to move out: one fucking week!" House was in real despair. He didn't know what to do. He'd lost his job and his income. He didn't have the money to pay a commercial rent anywhere else; didn't have any spare cash for a deposit; didn't have the time or inclination to start apartment hunting in a city which he didn't intend to be in much longer...

Wilson leaned against the couch, pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and said, "You can come and stay at my place, sleep on the couch."

House was rendered temporarily speechless. When he recovered he said, "Might your _wife_ not have something to say about that?"

Wilson shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Well, yes, maybe. But you can't end up sleeping on the street. I'll talk to her, I'm sure she'll understand. It would only be for a few weeks, until you sort yourself out, right?"

"Right," House agreed. And then figured Wilson owed him, goddamnit; he'd practically fallen on his sword to protect his fucking stupid affair with Pearl, after all.

And that was how House ended up living temporarily on the Wilson family couch.

* * *

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," had been Cath's initial reaction.

Wilson had known it wouldn't be easy, even after the several hours he had had to spend pacifying her: multiple entreaties, explanations, _I love yous_, appeals to her natural desire to help others, and bribes of future time they would definitely spend together...

But he still hadn't appreciated how impossible a situation it would be from the start. House had mercifully abandoned the piano with his room (claiming not to care, that it had been a pile of junk), and didn't have any furniture (it had been a furnished room) --but still had a remarkable pile of possessions that ended up stacked all over Wilson's living room. Boxes of books. Journals. Music. Videos. It was a fairly large room, but it also served as Wilson's study and was already cluttered with Wilson's own papers and books. Wilson moved as much as he could into the bedroom, which annoyed Cath, as this was largely her space.

House had barely been there any time at all when Cath discovered he had eaten a large chunk of a lasagna she had intended for dinner that evening. The inconvenience of an extra person using the only bathroom became clear the following morning, and the resulting meltdown ended in House shouting, "You think I _want _to sleep on your scabby sofa a moment longer than I have to?" and Cath locking herself in the bedroom and refusing to come out. Wilson walked around with a headache all day afterwards, and a dread that Catherine would finally decide to serve those divorce papers.

After that strained and furious first twenty-four hours, House chose to simply make himself scarce, which dashed any ideas Wilson might have had that it would be nice to have House around the home. House fell into a pattern of disappearing for long periods around the mornings and evenings, apparently coming back to crash on the couch for a few hours during the working day and in the middle of the night. This did give the Wilsons at least a corner of their living space back and the opportunity to have meals together in peace, but meant Wilson didn't actually get to see House at all.

He quickly found he missed not having House around the hospital, to lunch with, to nod to across corridors and lecture halls, to gossip about other people with. He couldn't even tell House his big news: that Pearl had come to tell him proudly that she would be transferring to Stanford next term, and it would probably be better if they stopped seeing each other. Wilson had narrowly resisted an air-punch.

The only good thing about the impossibility of the situation at home was that it really did spur House on to find a new job and a new place to live. After a couple of days Wilson found a scrawled note from House to say that he had spoken to Andrea Rusch and she had managed to line up a series of interviews for the residency in Infectious Diseases at Mass Gen he wanted in a week's time.

A week later, a suitcase vanished, along with one of Wilson's ties. Borrowed by House to take to Boston, Wilson could only assume.

The second day House was away, Wilson hoped for a phone call with news, without really expecting one. By the evening of the third day, he resigned himself to not hearing for another day or so. House would reappear when he was ready to reappear, with news, good or bad.

As luck would have it, he and Cath had just started dinner when there came the sound of a key in the lock. Wilson immediately thought _House! _and jumped up to go out into the hall. Sure enough, it was House, looking tired, carrying Wilson's suitcase and with his backpack over his shoulder. He looked curiously small and uncertain of himself, for House.

"I got the job," he said immediately.

"You heard already? That's fantastic, well done!" Wilson immediately felt conflicted; House would be leaving town. But he was heartfelt in his congratulations, truly pleased for his friend. House merely nodded, he didn't look particularly happy.

"Er--you did accept?" Wilson thought it best to check.

"Yes." House nodded, and peered sideways through the door to see Cath sitting at the table. "You're having dinner."

Wilson hesitated, and said, "Join us? I'm sure there's enough--"

House shook his head firmly, and dropped the case on the floor. "No. I just wanted to leave this, I'll go out, I'll speak to you tomorrow."

"No - give me a second." Wilson made a decision; House wasn't happy, something was wrong, he couldn't let House go walking off into the night like this. He went back in to speak to Cath. She had stopped eating and was sitting waiting for him.

"He got the job. He'll be moving to Boston," Wilson explained quickly, feeling a pang of sadness as he spoke the words. He looked around for his shoes, and walked across the room to put them on.

Cath watched him through wide eyes, and said, "You're not going out. Now?"

"Um, yes. I need to talk to House--"

"We're in the middle of dinner!" Cath sounded incredulous.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said apologetically, tying his shoelaces into hurried knots. "I'll be back soon--"

"No you won't. Not if House needs you." There was a new note of bitterness in her voice.

Wilson, already vaguely upset, felt suddenly angry and said, "I'd have thought you'd be _pleased_ he'll be leaving."

"Oh, I am." Cath's voice was low. "I can't wait." She picked up her fork and speared a piece of meat viciously. "Have a nice time. I won't wait up."

Wilson grabbed his jacket and left the room, shutting the door with unnecessary force. House, waiting in the hall, looked at him with raised eyebrows; Wilson thought he must have heard at least some of that.

"Let's go," Wilson said shortly.

* * *

Outside, they bumped shoulders and fell easily into step as usual, walking down the street. By mutual unspoken consent they headed towards a busy local bar where there would be some privacy and anonymity in the flurry of activity. House managed by sheer force of will to get them seats at a small corner table which was being vacated. Wilson struggled his way back from the bar with drinks, sat down, and House immediately pressed his leg close against Wilson's. Nobody could see, under the table, but Wilson was still surprised; they were usually both very careful to guard against any physical closeness in public. He sensed that House was seeking comfort, and pressed back.

"So how was Boston?" Wilson asked, deliberately making the question vague and neutral.

"Well, I thought about sending you a postcard but figured I wasn't really there long enough," House said, deadpan, and Wilson blushed a little, recalling the postcard he'd sent House from his honeymoon. House reached under the table and dug into his backpack. "So instead I brought you something--"

He emerged triumphant with a bundled-up T-shirt that he put on the table. The T-shirt fell aside to reveal it had been wrapped around a beer mug. Wilson picked it up; both the T-shirt and the beer mug were branded with the TV show _Cheers _logo.

"Um, thanks." Wilson grinned broadly, and said, "You could have gone to the Museum of Fine Arts, but instead--"

"You can't go to Boston and not go to the _Cheers_ bar," House said, as if this was obvious.

"Of course, how stupid of me," Wilson said, and reached into the glass. There was a photograph inside, curled around with the picture side inwards. He retrieved it to find a snapshot of House standing outside the _Cheers _bar. House, in jeans and a casual shirt, lounging against the window, not exactly smiling, but looking fairly smug. A lock of hair curling over his forehead, blue eyes gleaming, stubble pronounced; Wilson's heart immediately skipped a beat.

"I took a picture for a party of Japanese tourists, they insisted on taking one for me," House said, with studied nonchalance. "I got them to take a few as I wanted to finish the film. Figured I could spare you one."

Wilson understood immediately; that the real present here was not the T-shirt (which House would assuredly walk off with) or the beer mug (which House would probably let Wilson walk off with, but borrow back permanently at some point) but the photograph. He nodded a carefully casual _thanks_, and slid the photo into his inside left breast pocket.

"You have much time for sightseeing?" Wilson asked, edging towards asking about the interviews.

"Third day." House drank beer, hesitated, then opened up. "They offered on the second day, after the last round of interviews; I said yes, and before I knew it there were contracts and offer letters and medicals underway. I stayed an extra day to get the medical stuff done. I've even got an apartment arranged, I can live at the same place they put me in for the interviews. The previous occupant rented it off my new boss's sister, and she's only too happy to have me take it on."

"Wow. It sounds like everything's sorted?"

"I start a week from Monday." House sounded despondent.

Wilson really, really wanted to reach out, grab House and hold him close. Damn this bar and all the people in it. He restricted himself to pressing his knee harder against House's knee. "So we're celebrating, then," Wilson said, deadpan.

House put his empty glass down with a thud, looked at Wilson intently, then said, "I'm going back to my old room for a while, come with me."

Wilson frowned, not understanding.

"The guy who used to live in the room underneath me moved up to my room, but he's on rotation in the ER and working the night shift at the moment. I've been sneaking back in all week after he's left each evening to play the piano." House grinned a little. "The new guy in the room below is furious about the noise in the middle of the night, and can't understand it."

Wilson laughed incredulously; this was so House. "Of course you kept a key."

"Of course," House said solemnly, and glanced at his watch. "He'll have gone by now. The place'll be empty for the next few hours."

Wilson pushed dinner with Cath firmly from his mind, and nodded.

* * *

"I visited Mass Gen's Cancer Center while I was there," House remarked, unlocking the door to his old room. "It's world class... there are worse places you could end up doing a residency. Dr. Rusch's husband works there. Vasilius, he has the best gray beard, real Old Testament prophet beard."

Wilson didn't reply, but stored this information for future reference.

Back in House's old room, everything felt very odd. Sitting on the same old couch, but seeing strange belongings scattered everywhere--as if they'd entered some parallel universe, where House had never lived here after all. The current occupant hadn't yet got round to unpacking everything, and boxes sat around on surfaces.

House mooched around the room for a few minutes, seeming indecisive and nervous. He sat down at the piano and tapped out a few chords. Wilson figured House needed to be left alone for a bit, and tried to give him space. Eventually House sat down on the rug in the middle of his floor. They'd made out on the rug before; Wilson had occasionally wondered in the past if the guy in the room below could hear them--if so he had been too scared of House to say anything.

Wilson watched House for a moment, trying to gauge his mood, then slithered down off the couch to join him on the rug. It was the right thing to do; House reached out and wrapped his arms around him. They stayed like that for a few minutes, just sitting close together on the rug for a while, then House started to kiss Wilson very slowly and deliberately. Mouth to mouth, then mouth to chin, nose, cheeks, forehead.

They were getting on towards getting off very nicely indeed, when House pulled back slightly and said with a visible effort, "Wilson, it's... too fucking fast. A week ago I thought I was here for at least another six months, and now I'm moving to Boston already..." He swallowed. "I once told you _everybody leaves_... you told me they didn't. Now I feel like _I'm_ the one...fuck it--

His words dried up and he looked away. Frankly Wilson was amazed House had gone on as long as he had.

"Just because you're leaving, doesn't mean you're _leaving,_" Wilson spoke firmly. He hooked an arm around House's neck, took a few seconds to compose his thoughts, then went on. "House--I _wanted_ you to go for this job--it's the right thing for you. I'm glad you've got it. Okay, so we won't be able to do lunch every day--and I won't be able to go out drinking with you in the evenings, and end up crashing on your couch--but you know, we were never going to be able to carry on working in the same place forever anyway." Wilson's voice trembled slightly. "What is it, four hours' drive? There's buses and trains. It's not that far. And hey, you'd better give me a key to your new apartment."

House put a hand up to touch Wilson's hair, and looked into Wilson's eyes. And although House would never say it, never utter the words except in jest or as a distraction or when overloaded with sarcasm and irony, Wilson nonetheless heard it as plain as day: _I love you. __  
_  
Wilson couldn't say it, even less so than House could; was even more afraid of being vulnerable than House. And also Wilson said it too much already, too often, to his wife, to have the least idea how to make it really resonate. But he reached out, stroking House's ear, and tried to convey it through his eyes: _I love you too._

Wilson kissed House gently, undid a couple of buttons on House's shirt, and slid his hand inside. He ran his hand across House's chest, fingers plucking at House's chest hair and grazing House's nipples. House closed his eyes and moaned a little through clenched teeth. Wilson ran his other hand over House's crotch, feeling the bulge in House's jeans move slightly under his touch. Wilson felt his own cock harden and move slightly too.

House muttered, "Fuck me. Face to face."

_Face to face._ The words reminded Wilson vividly of the night before he'd gotten married, when they'd done that, for the first time: watching House's blue eyes blazing and soaring above him in the throes of orgasm. The expression on House's face said that he remembered that too, and Wilson realized there were even parallels with the situation: except this time it was House who was nervous about an upcoming event, and about to go away...

House sat back on the rug, leaning on his hands, and let Wilson unbutton his shirt. Wilson slid it off House's shoulders, and then undid House's fly; House wriggled out of his jeans and his boxers. Wilson watched House's lean, naked body emerge; his muscular thighs flexing, and his hard-on almost fully erect now, tall and red; Wilson reached for it and House gasped, arching into Wilson's hand. A little pre-come oozed onto Wilson's palm and Wilson used it to stroke House's cock, running up and down the shaft until House was goggle eyed and panting, "Wilson, just get _on _with it and fuck me already."

Wilson stood up to shed his own clothes, feeling his own cock hot and hard in the cool air of the room as he dropped his pants, then his boxers. He picked up his pants and delved into his wallet in the pocket for a condom, asking House jokingly, "Do you think the new occupant here keeps lube in his nightstand?"

House snorted in amusement. "I doubt it. Might be something else slippery around..."

Wilson wandered into the bedroom, quelling his fundamental guilt at being in someone else's room and about to have sex on their rug. The unease was by far outweighed by a searing decadent thrill. He found an open cardboard box sitting on the bedside table, filled with toiletries; suntan lotion, that would do. He headed back to the living room rug with the bottle; House rolled his eyes and said, "Good, I was worried about possible sunburn in here--"

"Carpet burn, maybe." Wilson sat down next to House and kissed him hard on the mouth. House kissed back, leaning into him, and their bare chests pressed up against each other. Wilson reveled in the glory of naked skin against naked skin, of House's goosebumps and body hair and beads of sweat brushing up against his own torso, which felt alive and fairly snapping with electricity. Wilson ran a hand over the strong muscular slope of House's shoulders, felt House's arm around him, holding him close, and shuddered at the touch of House's cock touching and jumping against his own.

Then he pushed gently at House with a palm; _lie down_. House settled on his back on the rug obediently with a small grunt; Wilson knelt above him and uncapped the bottle of lotion.

"Cold," Wilson warned unnecessarily, and tipped a generous handful of runny lotion over and down House's ass. House wriggled and squirmed and swore, then started to relax as Wilson readied him, probing, stretching, making nonsensical soothing sounds under his breath. Wilson paused briefly to snap on the condom, and then eased his way up inside House, slick and thick and hard.

"Fuck. _Fuck,_" House's face was contorted, the sounds he was making loud and obscene, barely words. Wilson shut his eyes and thrust, then opened his eyes because he wanted to see; House right underneath him, legs splayed, arms spread, blue eyes popping and flying sparks. House's hands scrabbled desperately and balled fistfuls of rug; Wilson reached out to grip House's wrists and used them as leverage to brace himself as he pushed again, deep inside House, deep as he'd ever been, Christ, this was _amazing,_ he could go on like this forever--

Except he couldn't, of course; the intensity built up swiftly and rushed through his body with terrifying speed, overwhelming him with its force. House twitched and clenched, and unable to hold off any more, Wilson came with a shout that must've been heard downstairs, surely. House strained and cried out as Wilson slammed into him and then almost collapsed on top of him. With an effort, House bucked his hips to push his own cock up into Wilson's belly and climaxed himself, practically yelling, _"Jesus Christ almighty--"__  
_  
_"Keep the noise down!" _came an exasperated shout from downstairs, and there was the _thump_ of a broom handle from the floor right underneath the rug.

Neither House nor Wilson, comatose on the rug, took any notice. They didn't care, because House was moving on, and this was the last time they'd be doing this in this room; this was their farewell sex, and it had been perfect.

They lay there for a while before struggling up and getting dressed, and just made it out of the house before the new occupant of the room got home.

END OF PART 9. TBC.

A/N: Next part: Wilson's marriage finally disintegrates. House gets a hot girlfriend.

* * *

A/N: You can read more about House & Wilson's inability to say 'I love you' to each other in Just the Pain Meds Talking.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 10  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** triedunture patiently Americanising me as ever  
**A/N: **Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. Later parts drafted and emerging slowly.

**Summary: **Wilson's marriage finally disintegrates. House gets a hot girlfriend.  
**Excerpt:** The next minute House dropped the journals in alarm as she screamed, "Greg! _There's a man in your bed!"_

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 10**

House unlocked his front door and stood aside to let his girlfriend in first. A leggy brunette wearing a tight blouse with a much-too-short skirt stepped into his living room and looked around. She'd been there before a few times, when House had made a vague effort to tidy up beforehand. This time he hadn't had time, and she turned up her nose a little at the mess.

"You have to get some of that crap off the couch," she declared. "There's nowhere even to sit down."

House had her perfume in his nose and her legs filling his head, her breasts on his brain and a fairly serious hard-on down his left pant leg. He picked up a handful of medical journals off the end of the couch to show willingness, while she walked towards the bedroom to leave her bag.

The next minute House dropped the journals in alarm as she screamed, "Greg! _There's a man in your bed!" _

"What!" House sped across the room, but he knew who it was before he got there. Only one other person had a key to his apartment.

"It's all right," he said, looking in dismay at Wilson, who was sound asleep and wrapped up in House's duvet like a cocoon. Wilson's head stuck out from one end, his hair mussed up and his mouth slightly open. "He's a friend of mine from Columbia. James Wilson."

"What's he doing here?" the girlfriend demanded.

"I don't know!" House had been living in Boston for a few months now. He racked his brains; Wilson had visited maybe six weeks ago, House was sure they hadn't made any arrangements since then.

They went back into the living room, House closing the door behind them. Right in front of them on a side table was his telephone, with the answering machine blinking red. He pressed the button and they both listened to Wilson's message.  
_  
"House, it's me. Listen, I'm on my way to your place, might stay a few days, sorry for the short notice. I left a message for you at work too, hope you find one or the other before I get here. See you." _

"I'm going home," the girlfriend said coldly.

Fuck. They'd been going out a few weeks, she'd kept him firmly at arms-length at the start and he'd worked hard on thawing her with charm, wit, and sheer determination. House had triumphantly sealed the deal for the first time a few days ago, and it had been _scorching_: he was positively aching for a repeat.

He was sufficiently horny not to want to let her go while there was still even the remotest chance of some action. "At least stay for coffee. That's what you came in for, right?" He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

She looked back at him. "Okay, I'll stay for coffee." Her tone said she was doing him a huge favor.

House realized he was skating on thin ice here. He inwardly cursed Wilson for his crappy timing as he walked into the kitchen and stuck the coffee machine on.

* * *

Wilson woke up gradually from his state of exhaustion, roused by faint noise and light When he finally opened his eyes he saw lights on under the door, which meant House was home. Vaguely surprised House hadn't come in the bedroom and shaken him awake, Wilson staggered up, opened the bedroom door and walked out into the living room.

He found himself looking at a pair of extremely long legs sitting on the couch. His eyes followed them upwards past the edge of a high skirt and a generous chest, to the face of an attractive dark haired woman glaring at him.

"Uh. Hi," Wilson mumbled. He was suddenly aware of how scruffy he was. Also he was only wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. (Thank God he hadn't been naked). Who _was_ this?--must be a girlfriend. And he'd been in House's bed--crap. Double crap.

She didn't reply, merely raked him up and down with her dark eyes.

House burst in through the bathroom door. "Wilson! How nice of you to pleasure us with your company." Now Wilson had a set of blue eyes glaring at him too. "A word?"

Wilson lamely followed House into the kitchen. House leaned on the counter and fixed Wilson with a piercing stare.

"You've really fucked up my evening," House said bluntly.

"I can see. I'm sorry." Wilson ran a hand through his already thoroughly mussed up hair, dismay growing by the second. "Look, let me get dressed and I'll go sit in a bar for a few hours or something."

"No. You look dead on your feet." For a second Wilson thought House was actually showing concern, but House carried on, "No point, it's too late, you've already killed the mood. I'll just have to try for another date next week. If I can get into her busy schedule. So, what's so important that you've come running out all the way up to Boston like this?"

"I had to get away for a couple of days." Wilson looked at the floor, and went on quietly, "I'm getting divorced."

House was silent for a moment, then said, "That sucks."

"She served the papers on me last week," Wilson continued. "I've been trying to persuade her not to go through with it ever since... but she's not gonna change her mind. I've been sleeping on the couch at home, and in the staffroom in the hospital, and working really hard to free up this weekend, which means I haven't really slept at all the last few days. Which is why I'm kinda beat."

"Well," House hesitated and said awkwardly, "You can stay long as you need, though your four hour commute to work might be a bit of a bummer."

"Actually," it was Wilson's turn to hesitate, "I've found a room, it's available from Saturday. I'm hoping... you'll come back with me this weekend, and help me move my stuff."

"If I must," House said gruffly.

"Thanks," Wilson said, equally gruffly.

"So what the hell happened?" House demanded. "You tell your wife about Pearl or something?" Wilson grimaced; House shook his head in amazement. "You did? I don't believe it, Wilson, you'd actually gotten away with that! You're an _idiot!"_

House's girlfriend appeared at the kitchen doorway at that moment and put her empty coffee mug down on the counter, announcing, "Greg, I'm going home."

Wilson smiled apologetically at her, not quite daring to say anything. She didn't deign to look at him.

House took a deep breath. "Hang on, I'll walk you out to your car."

* * *

He followed her as she stalked out of the front door, heels ringing out loudly on the sidewalk. As they arrived at her Beemer, House put on the most devastatingly sexy smile he could muster and said, "This wasn't really how I was expecting this evening to end. How about dinner next week, and we can carry on where we left off?"

"All right," she said magnanimously. "But tomorrow night. Dinner at the Locke-Ober. And you're paying."

House blanched at the mention of the oldest, most expensive and exclusive restaurant in town. They tended to split tabs--she earned vastly more money than he did and there were limits to his chivalry--but clearly this was the price of forgiveness.

"We'll never get a table at this short notice," he protested weakly. "Tomorrow? It's a Friday night--it'll have been booked out for weeks."

"I know the head waiter there; they always keep a few tables free on the night, he can get us one. I'll see you there, eight o'clock? Bring your checkbook."

House nodded dumbly. She leaned forward and kissed him: he kissed back. Her hair smelt pleasantly of coconut, and the taste of soft lips and velvety tongue sent a pulse through his groin. As she pulled back, reaching into her bag for her car keys, she added archly, "Bring your friend, if he's still here. He's very cute."

House gaped, and felt a jealous knot suddenly form in his stomach. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. She watched his expression, and smiled, mollified by his possessiveness, and got in the car and drove away.

House watched her go, and wondered what she would think if she knew the words he'd bitten back were _Hands off him, he's mine. _

* * *

Back inside, House found Wilson had cleared all the books off the couch so there was finally space for more than one person to sit down. House slumped down next to Wilson and said, "Situation salvaged, she agreed to have dinner tomorrow night. You screwed up my evening, so you get the bill. It's the Locke-Ober, so you'd better bottom out your overdraft before your wife screws you for alimony."

"House, I haven't got any money!" Wilson protested, looking around for the TV remote. "I'm as poor as a church mouse. As poor as a med student about to get divorced, actually. Which is _very _poor."

"Well, I'm as poor as a hard-working underpaid junior doctor trying to keep up with a girlfriend with expensive tastes. Who came back tonight to find _you _in my bed." House put as much outrage as he could into his tone. "You gave her the fright of her life, and--"

"All right, all right, I'm sorry, I really am! I'll pay," Wilson caved, and House, triumphant, immediately mentally resolved on champagne and caviar. "Who is she, anyway? Have you been going out long?"

"A few weeks." The exact date wasn't imprinted on House's brain. "She's an investment banker, and her name is Tigris."

"That's... unusual. Isn't it a river?"

"I tell her it's a porn star name." House privately liked her name; he thought that it suited her exotic dark looks very well. "Her douchebag banker colleagues call her Tigger, she doesn't like that. Dating a grungy impecunious doctor is a huge rebellion for her. She finds it _very _exciting." He raised a suggestive eyebrow.

"She is very hot," Wilson said meekly. "I'm sorry to give such a bad first impression. She must think--well, I have no idea what she must think."

"Actually--" House hesitated, then came out with it--"apparently she thinks you're cute. She even said you should come along for dinner."

"Ha ha," Wilson said, obviously not amused. "You are kidding, right? She thinks I'm cute? I haven't slept in forty-eight hours and I look like shit."

"She likes them rough around the edges," House said. "That's why she's going out with me."

"There's rough--" Wilson raised a hand and gently stroked House's stubbled cheek--"and there's _rough._" Wilson flicked his other hand through his own sleep-mussed-up hair and rolled his eyes. "You have your posh dinner with her tomorrow night, and I'll make myself scarce if you're gonna, um, bring her back here afterwards. And then we can go back to New York on Saturday?"

"Deal," House agreed magnanimously. He eyed Wilson's sticking-up hair and decided he could see exactly what Tig had meant; Wilson, tired and rumpled, and clad just in T-shirt and boxers, was quite unbelievably cute. "There is one other thing. I was _definitely_ going to get some tonight. You ought to make it up to me."

Wilson looked surprised, then laughed a little. "You've got a hot girlfriend, I'm not sure I can live up to that."

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," House pronounced with an atrocious leer.

Wilson screwed up his face in comical dismay at the expression. "That's just... horrible."

House grinned wolfishly, and reached out to hook a hand round the back of Wilson's neck. Wilson leaned in, and they kissed. House felt the prickle of stubble on stubble, the newly woken Wilson not smooth shaven for once, and tasting slightly of morning breath too, but House didn't care. He'd been horny for the last couple of hours around Tig; and now the feel of Wilson's mouth pushing against his was sending blood rushing to the groin.

"I really thought I was too tired for this tonight," Wilson murmured, and House relished the sight of Wilson now not just rumpled, but flushed and hungry-looking. And with an erection definitely visible through those boxer shorts.

"Go and get back in my bed," House dictated, and Wilson grinned and stood up. House sat on the couch watching Wilson's ass en route to the bedroom, then got up and followed, unbuckling his belt as he walked. He dropped his pants on the bedroom floor, as Wilson pulled the T-shirt off over his head, and House felt his erection pulse at the sight of Wilson's bare chest, smooth and pale in the dim light.

He yanked off his own shirt and pulled Wilson close to him, relishing the touch of Wilson's body against his, Wilson's nipples grazing his own chest hair. Not quite the sensation House had been expecting this evening but God, just as hot in a different way.

Wilson's breathing had increased markedly and his hands were on House's ass, sliding under the waistband of House's boxer shorts. House slid them off, waited for Wilson to do the same, then muttered, "Under the duvet. Like before."

Wilson slid underneath the duvet and pulled it around himself, rolling himself up, his head sticking out but this time with large brown eyes not closed but glowing in House's direction. House gazed back for a few seconds, transfixed momentarily by those eyes and that hair, and couldn't resist jerking at his own cock a couple of times at the sight. He then moved to look in the nightstand, finding condoms close to hand and lube pushed right to the back of the drawer...

Appropriately armed, House lay down next to Wilson in his cocoon, and tweaked at the corner of the quilt; Wilson merely looked back with a glint in his eye. House pulled at it, and Wilson pulled back, and then House tugged hard and sent Wilson rolling in the opposite direction, hair alternately flopping over his eyes and flattened behind. House dived beneath the covers and suddenly his naked flesh touched Wilson's naked flesh, _Jesus Christ, _and House almost came right away, there and then.

Barely controlling himself, House pushed more duvet aside to climb on top of Wilson, feeling Wilson's body warm and sweating beneath him. House eased in a finger and luxuriated in the tremble that ran through Wilson's body and the sound of Wilson's whimper, loud in the quiet room. He did it again, then decided that was quite enough of that, time for the real thing.

"Fuck, oh _fuck_," Wilson's eyes were popping and sheens of sweat swathed across his forehead as House thrust with vigor and enthusiasm. Duvet billowed over both their heads and tangled around House's right leg, but he barely noticed, intent on Wilson's ass clenched around his cock and Wilson's hair clutched in his hands and--House came with a small cry and a huge thrust, and felt Wilson's cock jerking in climax against his belly as he slumped down onto Wilson's chest.

* * *

Dinner the following evening with Tigris went swimmingly.

House had been living and working in Boston for several months now, but had never eaten at the Locke-Ober before. Tig was clearly an old hand, and they ended up on an excellent table in a quiet corner, well away from the crowds. From the antique furnishings to the black tie waiters, it was terribly formal and old style: not at all House's usual kind of thing, but he had to admit it had class.

He had found he actually got on well with Tig, better than with just about any other previous girlfriend House could recall. She liked hearing life as a doctor stories, he enjoyed being scornful at her stories of idiotic bankers. She was well traveled, like him; kept fit, liked sports and rock music, and didn't take any crap from him. He, conversely, found himself taking crap from her, and secretly rather liked it.

She was wearing a plunging top with just a small hint of black lace peeking out of her cleavage, and House could barely drag his eyes away. They had oysters to start, and House then reveled in watching her eat, the lump forming and moving in her throat before she swallowed each one whole. She had lobster for her main course and House admired the way she delicately dissected the carcass, hooking the meat out from each claw. "You'd make a decent surgeon," he informed her.

There were just two little clouds in the conversation. The first was her passing mention of her ex, a bond salesman who had cheated on her and was obviously a complete bastard. She'd mentioned him before; House had an inkling that they had some unresolved issues.

The second moment was near the end of dinner, over dessert, when they were talking about weekend plans. House told her that he was going back to New York to help Wilson move.

"Oh yes, your cute friend," she said, and slid a spoonful of sorbet into her mouth. "So tell me about him. What does he do? Is he single?"

House looked at her a little suspiciously. "Wilson? He's a med student. Married, and about to get divorced."

"Divorced? You must be kidding!" She put the spoon down into her bowl. "He looks like a teddy bear, surely he's not old enough."

"He's twenty-three. Way too young for you," House said rudely. Tigris was a couple of years older than House and sensitive about having recently turned thirty. He reached over and dug a spoon into her sorbet.

"Maybe I'd like a toy boy. He sure looked adorable in your bed," she retorted, picking up a knife, and she sliced off a segment of his key lime pie with what House felt was unnecessary force. The conversation moved on, but left House with a feeling of vague unease.

Nevertheless, neither of them mentioned Wilson again. The meal ended well with them both very mellow over Irish coffee, where House enjoyed the touch of a stockinged foot placed strategically halfway up his thigh under the table.

"My place?" she said as they left, and House was only too happy to agree. He had banished Wilson for the evening from his own apartment on pain of death, but it was still easiest to avoid.

He draped his jacket over her shoulders as she hailed a cab.

* * *

"Excuse me," said a blonde at Wilson's elbow. He looked around, startled: he'd been sunk so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed her approach.

"My friend really likes you," she said, jerking a thumb down the bar towards another blonde who was blushing and shaking her head. "She's just too shy to come up and say hello herself, so I thought I'd do it for her. Would you like to join us?"

"Um, thank-you very much, but no," Wilson said hastily and firmly. "Tell your friend I'm very flattered, but I'm married." And that was even true, for at least the next few days.

"You're not wearing a ring," the blonde said with unnerving speed. Wilson supposed that was the kind of thing she and her friend would have discussed and observed before she'd approached.

"I've always been hopeless at wearing rings," he said, and that was also true. He threw her a smile which was supposed to be charming and apologetic, and it seemed to work; she said sorry and left, without kicking up a fuss or getting upset. She rejoined her friend, who was by this time bright red. Wilson threw another smile in her direction and a slight apologetic shake of the head.

"Are you really married?" a male voice asked, and Wilson looked around to find the bartender looking at him with some amusement.

"Yes, I am, actually." Wilson cradled his beer between his hands. "Although I'm also in the middle of getting divorced right now."

_I'm getting divorced._ He could have joined those two blondes without the need for any gnawing guilt about his wife at home. Wilson realized abruptly that he hadn't actually uttered those words to anybody except House yet. He still had to tell Mom and Dad, and Jonathan... his head hurt just thinking about it. They'd be shocked; they all loved Cath, it would come right out of the blue. It had been building up for months and months, but he hadn't given them any inkling. He'd been so busy trying to head it all off, stop it happening, he hadn't quite believed this day would come.

"Ah," the bartender nodded. He reached under the counter and produced a bottle, a superior brand of whiskey. "Have one of these on the house."

"Thank-you, that's very kind." Wilson watched the barman pour whiskey. Having slept all day at House's apartment while House was out at work, Wilson was now wide awake and melancholy after a few beers by himself. He figured he was never going to come to this bar again, and felt the need to talk to _somebody_.

He picked up the glass and said to the bartender, "You know, I'm sitting here wondering whether to tell my best friend that I love her and want to be with her."

Wilson changed House's gender as a reflex action, protecting himself against any reaction, barely even thinking about it.

"Awesome," said the barman, leaning on the counter. "Just do it."

"It's really not that simple," Wilson said despondently. "She's seeing someone else right now." Literally right now; House, out this evening for a special dinner with his girlfriend. Tigris. Strange name, beautiful girl. And Wilson dwelt briefly on the irony that just as he became single, House had started going out with someone else.

"Have you actually discussed it with her?" the bartender asked.

"No." Wilson sighed. He and House discussed so much, understood so much, without words; but not this.

"I don't think it would work anyway," Wilson went on, in full spilling-guts mode now. "I live in New York, she's here in Boston, four hours away..."

"Not an insurmountable distance."

"Maybe, and I might be able to get a job in Boston in a year or so... But even if I did, I don't think we could live together without killing each other within a few days. And then there's our families, they wouldn't approve..."

This last was a powerful factor. Between House's father and Wilson's brother, they'd end up with no family left even between them.

And the other thing, which Wilson wasn't about to share right now, was that they both liked women too much.

Wilson let his gaze rest on the blonde women up the bar, who were standing up to leave. They were both pretty, and it wasn't too late to join them. And yet this really wasn't what he wanted just now. Not with the bitter taste of his disastrous marriage right there like gall in his mouth.

But he did want _something_... just not this. Wilson looked carefully over at the bartender, who was polishing a glass and watching him with amused dark eyes. He was tall and lean, with short bleached hair. Wilson spotted a diamond stud glittering in his right ear. Maybe he needn't have made that gender switch after all.

"Looks like you've talked yourself out of it," the bartender said.

"I guess I have." Wilson paused, then went on carefully, "I wonder if you could point me towards... a _different_ kind of bar."

The bartender smiled broadly, then glanced at the clock, which said 10.30 PM. "I finish my shift here in half an hour, then I'm going clubbing. You want to hang around, I'll take you somewhere."

"Sounds good," said Wilson, and sipped whiskey.

* * *

The following morning Tig forced House to get up far too early for a Saturday because she had a game of squash scheduled with a work colleague at some unearthy hour. House moaned loudly about it, but didn't actually mind, he had to go back to New York today with Wilson after all.

House arrived home, feeling splendidly relaxed and humming cheerfully, to find Wilson in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water.

"Wilson, what _do_ you look like?"

It was rhetorical. Wilson looked like he'd been through a wringer. His hair stuck out in all different directions, his eyes were dark rimmed, bloodshot and hollow. Pale, shaking slightly and moving slowly, he was obviously completely hungover and still semi-stoned despite the hour.

"I'm... fine. I just haven't... really been to bed yet," Wilson mumbled. "Need to sleep."

"Good thing Tig isn't here, she'd jump you looking like that," House growled. "Aren't we supposed to be going to New York this morning? To move your stuff?"

"I'll... sleep on the train... " Wilson stifled a yawn. "Just... need to take a shower..."

House watched Wilson carefully as he headed towards the bathroom, and frowned. He'd seen Wilson do some stupid things after a few drinks; there was that bottle throwing arrest in New Orleans, for a start, but he'd never witnessed Wilson go on an all-night bender like this before. Wilson might not have been arrested this time, but House rather thought this was worse. He couldn't remember seeing Wilson in this kind of state before: jittery, walking stiffly...

Part of him wondered what on earth Wilson had got up to. Another part of him really, really, didn't want to know.

* * *

True to his word, Wilson slept virtually every minute of the train journey to New York. He woke up yawning and feeling almost his normal self again. Back home (alas, not to be home any more), they found to his relief that Catherine had deliberately absented herself, leaving everything she deemed to be his in a large pile on the living room floor. Wilson accepted the pile without a second glance.

"Shouldn't you be claiming half of everything?" House asked.

"She can take it all. I don't want it." _I don't deserve it, _Wilson's didn't say, but thought. He could see House comprehend. "I don't want to cause her any trouble... I want to stay friends with her."

"Of course you do," House said, a trifle wearily.

Catherine had also left the car, with a note saying they could have it in the afternoon but she needed it that evening to go to a class. They loaded it up and shifted boxes without too much trouble. The room Wilson had found was small but nice enough. It was close by and in a large shared house lived in by a mixture of young professionals and students.

"It'll be a drag sharing a kitchen and bathroom again," Wilson said mournfully after the last run, as he put the last box down and closed the door.

"Well, you should have thought of that before you wrecked your marriage," House snapped, obviously not about to let Wilson wallow in self-pity. He flopped down on the bed and put his feet up.

"It'll be strange sleeping in a single bed again, too," Wilson said, sitting down next to House. "How was your dinner last night, by the way? I forgot to ask."

"Your money was well spent." House turned on his side, towards Wilson. "And the sex was even better than the food."

Wilson laughed a little. "Glad to hear it."

House had something on his mind, Wilson could see; blue eyes were flickering, debating whether to say something. Wilson kicked off his shoes and lay down himself, leaving an inch of space between them. This meant he was rather perilously close to the edge of the bed, but as he'd hoped, the proximity encouraged House to speak.

"She took a fancy to you," House said abruptly. Wilson felt House's breath, warm on his cheek and nose. "Next time you come to Boston, watch out, she's liable to make a pass at you."

"You are kidding me," Wilson protested. "I barely met her!"

House shrugged a little; the mattress shifted slightly under his weight. "Maybe it would be good. It could be one hot threesome..."

There was an everso slight query in House's voice at the end, and Wilson sensed this was some kind of test. He thought for a moment, then said carefully and deliberately, "I think a threesome would be an extremely _bad _idea."

He just caught relief on House's face, then mentally groaned as it was swiftly followed by House's differential-diagnosis look.

"Now why do you think that?" House mused.

Wilson groaned out loud this time, lay back and stared at the ceiling, formulating his thoughts. After a minute he spoke, mainly to avoid House interpreting for him. "I don't know her, but I'd guess she'd be expecting me and you to take turns fucking _her_. So I'd also guess that she might be, uh, surprised, if instead me and you started fucking _each other_. Of course if I'm wrong, and you think that would turn her on, and indeed you on, then I'd think about it. But frankly the whole idea creeps me out. And I think you'd rather not... have her, or anyone else, _see us together _either."

He picked those last few words very carefully.

"I think it would be an extremely bad idea too, " House said gruffly, and they exchanged looks, and he and Wilson both knew they'd agreed on something more than just a joke about threesomes.

"And anyway," Wilson added. "You really like her, don't you? I don't want to... get in the way. Especially as she's already found me in your bed once."

And House moved to eliminate the inch of space between them, and kissed Wilson on the mouth. Wilson felt pleasure and gratitude flowing from House to himself, and kissed back.

The bed was so narrow they then entwined naturally, with barely any movement required. They lay pressed up against each other, necking and fondling, for quite some time. Wilson relished the simple delight of being close to House, stubble grating his chin, long fingers rustling his hair and clasping the back of his head. After a while they wriggled out of clothes and moved easily into a spooning position, bumping and grinding until Wilson came with his groin locked hard up against House's tailbone. He gave House a reach-around with his left hand, pumping and rolling until House buried his face in the pillow and arched his back in climax.

They both slipped into slumber, and much later, Wilson woke up and realized that he hadn't returned the car. Cath would have missed her class. _Crap. _He decided groggily that she would just have to add it to the long list of grievances where House had delayed and distracted him, thoughtless husband that he was clearly destined to be to the end, and slumped back into sleep.

**END OF PART 10. TBC**

**Next part:** House has girlfriend problems. Wilson makes friends with a small brunette coming out of a bad relationship.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 11  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** much praise for triedunture as ever  
**A/N: **Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. Later parts drafted and emerging slowly.

**Summary:** House has girlfriend problems. Wilson makes a new friend called Bonnie.  
**Excerpt:** The only good thing about living four hours' journey away from House, Wilson thought, was that when they did meet, the sex was _awesome_.

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 11**

Despite their divorce, Wilson managed to remain on good terms with Catherine, which he was glad about. She seemed to be getting on very well in her job and was managing to keep their apartment on her own, and he was happy that she was coping without him. They sorted out the terms of their divorce amicably over meals or drinks, and even occasionally met up as friends. Sometimes they went to the movies, occasionally to the theater.

Meanwhile, Wilson had his head down working hard; determined to finish med school as quickly and successfully as he possibly could. He spent some long lonely weekends in his small room, working his way through mountains of books and journals; memorizing, learning, studying. No wife any more, no other distractions. House was four hours away in Boston; working all hours as a junior doctor, while also juggling a demanding girlfriend who had her own ideas about how he should spend his rare leisure time.

The only good thing about living four hours' journey away from House, Wilson thought, was that when they did meet, the sex was _awesome_.

They could have drifted apart, but they didn't. Because it was all worth it for those occasional Friday evenings every couple of months or so. Long wearisome train journeys up to House's scruffy Boston apartment, or House arriving in New York, invariably looking completely exhausted and yet eminently fuckable. Those first nights were always aggressive, both of them just a bit too horny; barely waiting for the door to close behind them before one of them jumped the other. Sometimes they barely even bothered to shed any clothes; a couple of times Wilson found himself being fucked against the back of the couch, with pants around knees, still wearing his jacket and shoes.

Saturdays were spent eating and sleeping, discussing medicine and everything else under the sun. In the evening they sometimes went out, but more usually stayed in, and those nights were much slower. Wilson could spend what seemed like hours just lying next to House, the two of them kissing, nibbling, stroking; being kissed, nibbled and stroked. Leading to very long, very slow, fucking; Wilson luxuriating at the sensation of House's cock gliding in and out of his ass, House's stubble grazing the back of his neck; House taking it a little bit faster and harder each time, building up until the two of them were panting and almost deliriously close to orgasm, and waiting for that _one--last--thrust_ that would take them both simultaneously over the edge.

Or they did it face to face, when Wilson usually topped; he liked to bury himself deep inside House and take his time, grinding slowly while House alternately relaxed and clenched and squirmed and eventually swore, and sometimes even cracked to the point of telling Wilson to _just do it already_, at which point Wilson could usually get House to beg for it. Which was always very satisfying, and it was evident to Wilson that House got a kick out of being occasionally broken like this too. House usually found some small way of reasserting dominance later on, like monopolizing all the blankets or claiming the TV remote; Wilson let him, satisfied that they both knew this was just saving face.

But the trouble with these Fridays and Saturdays was that the resulting Sundays were always clouded with eventual departure on the horizon, a four hour train journey looming for one of them; and even worse for the other, being left behind. They barely talked about it, both outwardly nonchalant; _bye, see you in a few weeks?_ And yet each knew the other was desperately sad, and not talking about it was the only way they coped. Each such occasion was more painful than the one before, and sometimes Wilson was afraid they wouldn't meet again simply because one of them wouldn't be able to face the Sunday.

* * *

About nine months or so after he had moved out from his apartment with Cath, Wilson made another friend. He came home one evening to the shared house he now lived in to find a small dark haired woman in the hallway, struggling with two enormous suitcases. She had managed to get one half way up the stairs to the second floor, and was now sitting on the steps regaining her breath and apparently fighting back tears. Wilson didn't hesitate to carry the cases upstairs for her, for which she was pathetically grateful.

"Thank-you so much. I've had such a hard day, those cases were just the last straw. Could I offer you coffee or something?"

Wilson looked around her room; she had clearly just moved in. Bags and cases were strewn everywhere. "Why don't you have coffee with me instead?" he suggested. "My room's just downstairs. I'm James Wilson, by the way."

"I'm Bonnie," she said, large dark eyes brimming with gratitude. "Thank-you so much. I really appreciate it."

Over coffee, he asked conversationally, "So, what brings you here, you've just moved in?"

"Yes. It's been very stressful. I had to find a nice place in an awful hurry." She cradled her mug in her hands. "My boyfriend and I had such a fight, he's such a beast... I couldn't stay a moment longer... this was the only place I could find on short notice." She looked at him. "I think I fell on my feet, you're very kind."

Wilson demurred politely. He asked diffidently about the beast of a boyfriend, and was told a tale of woe about her college sweetheart quarterback, who had become insanely jealous for no reason and was now being borderline abusive. He expressed commiserations, and offered to help her in any way he could. She took him up on the latter, and Wilson found himself called on repeatedly over the next few days to change light bulbs, shift boxes, organize a new telephone line, and numerous other moving in problems.

They found common ground in that they were both from New Jersey and each had family in Trenton. They also discovered a shared appreciation for art, and started going out together at the weekends around New York museums; Wilson had managed to live in New York for more than three years without finding time to go to most of them. Bonnie knew them well, and was delighted to show him all her favorite places and all her most treasured exhibits. Wilson was pleased to have someone to share these interests with.

Along the way, they agreed solemnly that they were just friends. They weren't dating; neither of them were interested in a relationship right now. Wilson was newly divorced, after all; Bonnie was extricating herself from her relationship with the jealous quarterback.

* * *

It was late in Wilson's final year and nearing exam time when his friendship with Bonnie, and also House's relationship with Tigris, unexpectedly changed. It all started one weekday afternoon when Wilson was buried deep in past exam papers. There was a sharp knock at his door. It sounded like House--but he wasn't expecting House. House should be at work. In Boston.

He would have shouted _Come in_ if he'd thought it was House, but as it wasn't, he got up to answer. And then it was House after all.

"What are you doing here?" Wilson said in surprise.

"Thanks for the warm welcome," House groused, stomping inside. "Seminar in New York tomorrow. The guy in my department who was supposed to be going is off sick. Acute gastroenteritis, and he calls himself an infectious diseases expert. So while he's puking his guts out, I get to go to the seminar instead. Thought I could crash here."

"Um, sure." Wilson shut the door and watched House drop his backpack on the floor and slump onto the couch. "I was just in the middle of studying , do you mind if I keep at it for a bit?"

"Sure. Go ahead. I'm working nights, I've come straight from my last shift. Might take a nap." House shrugged off his jacket and put his feet up on the couch.

Wilson went back to his desk and absorbed himself in medical terminology again. He glanced at the couch fifteen minutes later to see that House had indeed gone to sleep and was snoring gently.

Half an hour later Wilson got up to stretch his legs and House was still sleeping. Wilson wandered over to look at him. House lay on his back, one arm dangling off the couch, mouth slightly open. He looked tired--really tired. Wilson found a blanket and draped it over House, careful not to wake him.

A while later, there was another knock at his door. Wilson went to answer; it was Bonnie, returning a book she'd borrowed. Wilson thanked her. She was obviously hoping to come in and chat, so Wilson hastened to explain she couldn't.

"Can't really talk now, House has turned up, out of the blue." he explained, standing in the doorway. He kept his voice low, conscious that House was asleep. "He's in New York for a seminar."

"Your Boston buddy?" Bonnie said brightly. "The guy in the _Cheers_ photo?"

Wilson kept the photograph of House outside the _Cheers _bar propped up on a high bookshelf in his room. It wasn't awfully obvious, but Bonnie had spotted it. "That's him."

"The one who's trying to help you get to Boston after med school," Bonnie clarified, and Wilson nodded. He very much wanted to do an internal medicine residency at Mass Gen, and House was doing all he could to facilitate this--helping Wilson study, passing on essential tips, exam techniques and medical mnemonics, and giving advice on his application from his inside knowledge. They didn't discuss it in words, but the prospect of Wilson coming to live in Boston was pretty much the only thing that made their occasional Sunday night partings bearable.

"You must introduce us sometime," Bonnie pressed.

Wilson wasn't keen to do this. He knew House was of the opinion that it was impossible for Wilson to have a friend of the opposite sex without it turning into something more, so had opted to say very little about Bonnie to House. "Um, absolutely. But not right now, he's asleep, crashed on my couch."

"Well, some other time." Bonnie lingered. "Speaking of Boston, I wanted to show you this." She produced a glossy leaflet and handed it to him. It was a flyer for a big exhibition of Impressionist art at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. "You're always popping up to Boston, I thought you'd be interested."

"Absolutely." It looked like a great exhibition, all the big names. "Thank-you, that's very thoughtful. I'll definitely go next time I'm there."

"Actually," she hesitated, "I thought maybe we could go together? Next time you're going up to stay with your friend, I could come up to Boston for a night and stay in a hotel. We could meet up and go to the exhibition together. And maybe I could meet your friend, too...?"

"Um, sure." Wilson couldn't think of any reason why not. There was no fun in going to an art exhibition with House, who knew far too much about art but liked very little. Wilson had tried it before and it had never gone well. He'd only end up going on his own, so why not go with Bonnie? And he supposed Bonnie would have to meet House at some point. "Yes, that's a great idea. Look, I'll tell you when I'm next going to Boston and we can sort something out."

She left, content with that. Wilson shut the door and came back into the living room to find that House had woken up.

"New girlfriend?" House inquired through a yawn.

"Just a friend. Returning a book." Wilson waved the book as evidence. He perched on the couch next to House and ran an affectionate hand through House's hair.

"Yeah, right." House rubbed his eyes and leaned his head against Wilson's hand. "You should be in demand--cute, single--"

"I don't think being divorced helps," Wilson pointed out.

"It's been what, nearly a year? Surely you're due a rebound fuck or two." House leaned on his elbows and pushed himself upright a few inches.

"I'm really not thinking about that sort of thing right now," Wilson said firmly. "Anyway, I think her quarterback boyfriend might have something to say about it." He omitted to mention that the quarterback was now an ex.

"Not the sort of thing that's stopped you in the past," House countered, but Wilson's comment had appeased him, and there was no heat in it.

"How's _your_ girlfriend, anyway?" Wilson asked, feeling the need to retort in kind. "Tigris? Still going out with her?"

House grimaced. "You'll need to buy me a few stiff whiskeys before I talk about that."

Interesting. Wilson raised his eyebrows. "All right. Give me another hour to work on this."

"Done." House slumped back on the couch and pulled the blanket over his head.

* * *

House had woken up by late evening, and they went out for a couple of beers. Then they had dinner, because Wilson insisted that they eat something, and House got through most of an accompanying bottle of wine. Then more drinks, tequila shots this time, with salt licked off the back of a hand between each shot. By 1 AM they were in a club, which had seemed like a good idea at the time House suggested it, music reverberating through the floorboards and hot sweaty bodies pounding the dance floor all around.

Several times during the evening Wilson thought about mentioning the seminar House was supposed to be going to the next day, but didn't think it would make any difference. There was something bothering House, something to do with Tig: House had come out to get blasted, and there was nothing Wilson could do about it except mitigate the worst effects as best he could. Wilson knew he was pretty drunk himself, but had deliberately kept a few drinks behind House for both their sakes.

House had staggered off to the bathroom, and while Wilson was waiting for him, leaning against a high table, a woman materialized beside him saying, "Hey."

"Er, hey," Wilson said, smiling automatically at her.

"Would you like to dance?" she asked, batting long eyelashes at him. She was blonde and attractive, and wearing a tight top that showed a lot of cleavage.

"I would," Wilson said, with as a regretful a tone as he could manage. "But I need to stay here and look out for my friend, he's pretty out of his head--he's over there."

House was weaving his way back across the floor towards them. Miraculously, he had bought drinks--the first he'd have bought all evening, Wilson reckoned. The only too obvious explanation for that, judging from the size of the glasses, was that House had decided to switch to whiskey.

"Well," she said, taking rejection with a smile. "If you're coming back here some time without him, give me a call." She fished a pen and a Post-It note out of her bag, scribbled down a phone number, and handed it to him. Wilson took it, to be polite, and nodded thanks; she smiled at him and vanished.

"Wilson," House said, arriving and putting the whiskey glasses down on the table. "I leave you on your own for five minutes and you've already scored."

Wilson put the phone number inside his wallet, and discovered House had somehow picked his pocket and removed all the remaining bills. So much for buying his own drinks. Annoyed, Wilson decided this was a good moment to ask, "Weren't you going to tell me about your girlfriend?"

Apparently House had finally reached the alcoholic tipping point where he was willing to talk. "That _fucking bitch_," he said unexpectedly.

Wilson blinked. "You've split up, then."

House laughed, a hollow sound. "Not that simple. Never that simple, with her." He downed most of his glass. "About a month ago she started seeing her ex again. But somehow we're still having sex."

Wilson tried to get his befuddled brain around this concept. "Um... so this is what, an open relationship?"

"She basically was going to dump me to go back to her bastard of an ex-boyfriend... fucking douchebag, with a penis substitute car." House almost spat with contempt. "But he treats her like shit. So she treats him like shit, and one of the ways she does that is to keep on having sex with me."

"And you're OK with that?" Wilson was feeling his way in the dark here.

"Do I look like I'm OK?" House demanded. "At first I thought it had its upside. Sex without worrying about the relationship stuff, great, isn't that nirvana or something? But it's been going on for weeks now, and I have no idea what's in her fucking head anymore."

"Have you tried... talking to her?" Wilson felt stupid, but had to say it.

"She's not one for talking about stuff." House took a gulp out of Wilson's glass. Wilson thought about the mixture of beer, wine and tequila sloshing around in House's stomach, and wondered what effect whiskey on top would have.

"Are you... in love with her?" Wilson asked, hoping that House wouldn't remember this conversation tomorrow.

"No I am not fucking in love with her. I am fucking in _lust _with her," House stated.

Wilson decided he could understand this. "So... is it really that bad? Presumably she'll get fed up with you or him in the end?"

"Wilson." House put Wilson's empty glass down. "I'm working nights. I have hardly slept a wink for weeks, because she's always popping up at strange times and dragging me places, and I never know when this is gonna be. It's affecting my job because I'm tired and I can't concentrate. Sometimes days go by, and I don't hear from her, and I think maybe that's it, kind of a shame but probably for the best, and then she's back. And next thing we're in the weirdest fucking places, doing some shit--and its fun the first time, but it always has to be more daring than the last time for her, more of a thrill--"

"What sort of shit?" Wilson had a bad feeling about this.

House shook his head. "She's a bit too fond of the white powder, to be honest."

Wilson froze, all amusement suddenly dropping away. "House. You're kidding.

"Oh, don't go all moral on me now," House groaned. "I'm just saying--"

Wilson grabbed House's arm and pushed up his shirt-sleeve.

"No needles," House said immediately.

"Because it's going up your nose instead," Wilson said viciously, and smacked House's arm. "House, you're such an idiot. This is so not worth it."

"Wilson, take a happy pill and relax," House snapped, and Wilson was now so angry that he couldn't look at House anymore, and just turned and walked away.

He left the club, and stepped out into the cool night air, and breathed deeply. Wilson knew House liked to get high, and tried hard not to argue about this because it didn't happen that often, and when it did House would say, _what the fuck is your problem?_ to which Wilson would have to steel himself not to say, _I saw what this did to my brother, you jackass, don't you dare put me through that again… _Wilson didn't want to risk that conversation.

He looked around for a cab and wondered if there was any way House could find his way home on his own.

"Wilson." House came stumbling down the steps after him. Wilson stopped and let him catch up. "What the fuck?"

"You're an ass," Wilson said shortly, and waved for a cab.

"No need to go off the deep end like this, Christ," House growled, and swayed on his feet.

"You're a fool," Wilson grabbed House's arm to keep him upright. "Listen to yourself. You're a doctor. You're intelligent. You should know better than this."

He didn't expect an answer from House; he expected more argument. But instead House swayed again, and clutched at Wilson's arm, and Wilson saw he had turned green. Wilson hastily pulled House to one side of the steps, just far enough out of the way before House threw up spectacularly.

And because House needed him, Wilson stood and waited, one hand on House's back, until the beer, wine, tequila and whiskey combo had finally stopped their combustion. He then sat House down on the steps to recover for a few minutes, handing House a handkerchief to wipe his face. After a few minutes, when House was able to stand, Wilson managed to get them into a cab.

Back home, Wilson put House to bed on the couch--he really drew the line at House sharing his bed after all that--and placed a bucket next to him.

House, who had barely said a word since being sick, mumbled something unintelligible just as Wilson was about to turn off the light.

Wilson took his hand off the switch and came to crouch next to House. "What was that?"

"I can't seem to say no to her," House mumbled, and peered up at Wilson through bleary eyes. "It's funny; I always thought _you_ were the one led by your dick."

Wilson smiled, a little, and left House for the night.

* * *

Next morning, House actually made it to his seminar, although only after Wilson dragged him off the couch, stuck him under the shower and forced coffee down his throat. Which was painful but necessary, as House reluctantly acknowledged to himself, as he suspected he might have been fired if he hadn't shown up at all. It was a rather perfunctory attendance as he arrived late and left early. He thought he could get away with it though, as anybody who saw him there would have agreed he looked like death warmed over. With luck he could even blame it on his colleague with gastroenteritis.

He headed back to Wilson's room afterwards, downed a handful of Advil for his raging headache (why Wilson couldn't keep some real painkillers around the place, House had no idea), and crashed on the couch for a few hours. When he woke up, it was late and Wilson was home, sitting at the table, deep in books.

House would have liked to have turned over and gone back to sleep, but instead hoisted himself up and went to sit at the table, trying to look as demure as possible. He wasn't entirely sure how Wilson was going to react to him.

Wilson looked up at him blandly and said, "Good seminar?"

"Waste of time," House said, and added hurriedly lest Wilson regret getting him there that morning, "Good thing I went, though. Friend of my boss was there, he'd have said if I hadn't turned up, and I would have been in deep shit."

Wilson nodded.

House drummed his fingers on the table and asked, "Did you phone her? The girl in the club. Who gave you her number."

He watched Wilson compute that yes, House did remember their conversation in the club the previous night. Wilson sighed a little, and said, "No."

"You should," House said, and watched Wilson raise a bushy eyebrow. "You should start dating again."

"And you," Wilson countered, "should get out of _your _miserable, self-destructive relationship right now. However hot the sex is."

House sighed this time, looked at the floor and didn't reply.

Wilson's expression softened a little. He leaned forward and touched House's hand. "Hey."

House took Wilson's hand, gladdened by the touch. "I'll try," he muttered.

"Do try," Wilson said sincerely, and squeezed House's hand. "How are you feeling, anyway?"

"Peachy." House felt his stomach turn a little at the question. He had eaten a large bacon and fried egg sandwich earlier and kept it down, although the thought of it now made him feel queasy again. "I just need more sleep."

Wilson's expression said he was more concerned than he felt able to say. "House, tomorrow's Friday, why don't you just stay here for the weekend?"

"Can't." There was nothing House would have liked better. "Have to go back to Boston tomorrow. Have to be back to do the Friday night shift."

"Surely you could call in sick..."

"No. I'm rostered all nights at the moment, have to do Saturday night too. I skived off last weekend, Dr. Rusch will have my hide if I do it again." The thought of going back to work brought on a wave of exhaustion. House stood up and moved back towards the couch. "I have to get some more sleep."

Wilson sat back in his chair, apparently thinking. House flopped down on the couch and pulled the blanket around himself again. Wilson then announced, "I'll come back to Boston with you."

House peeked out from the blanket, surprised. "I won't be around much. Gotta work at night and sleep during the day."

"I know. I'll bring some work. It'll be a change of scene, do me good, I've been spending a lot of time here, going a bit stir crazy." Wilson waved an arm across the table, spread with books and papers. "Anyway, there's an exhibition I want to go to at the museum."

"Fine." House yawned, and closed his eyes. If Wilson wanted to play the protective mother hen for a couple of days, House had no objection. His apartment would probably get cleaned, and maybe his kitchen cupboards filled too.

* * *

They were on the train halfway to Boston the following day before Wilson remarked casually to House that his friend Bonnie was coming down to Boston on the Saturday, to go to the exhibition with him.

"Bonnie?" House said suspiciously. "You've kept this very quiet." He put two and two together and swiftly made four, then eight, then sixteen. "She's the one at the door the other day. With the book. You said she had a quarterback boyfriend."

"She does," Wilson said firmly. "Well, she did. He was a brute and they split up... It's irrelevant, anyway. We're just friends."

House didn't say anything, just waited for Wilson to start protesting too much.

"Neither of us wants a relationship, House. It's too soon after my divorce, too soon since she split up with her ex," Wilson immediately fell into the trap. "We just like each other's company. She's a nice person. We've got a lot in common, she's from Jersey, we both like art museums--

"Did I ask you to tell me about her?" House said, in a bored tone. Wilson shut up like a clam, and House shut his eyes and pretended to go to sleep. The pretense swiftly became reality, and he snored through the rest of the journey on Wilson's shoulder.

* * *

Back at House's apartment that evening, House left for work and Wilson settled himself comfortably down on the couch with a stack of lecture notes. He was soon absorbed by it, and the sound of a key turning in the front door only a couple of hours later came as a real shock. It couldn't be House, it was far too early--who else would have a key--?

The girlfriend, of course. And as expected, Tigris stepped inside. She stopped short at the sight of him. "Oh! Hello. James, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah, that's right. Hello, Tigris." They'd met a few times over the last year, but always only briefly.

"Greg not here?" she asked. She came inside, put down her purse and shrugged off her jacket.

"No, he's working the night shift. He won't be back until the morning..."

"Shame. I've been stood up, I was hoping for some company." Tigris put her head on one side and looked at him. She looked casual but dynamite in tight jeans and a red sweater. "You want to come out for a drink?"

"No," Wilson said hastily, and gestured towards the papers around him. "I'm studying... I've got exams soon... really can't go out..."

"Well, how about I join you here for a little while." Tigris headed into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Just for a quick one?"

It was impossible to refuse without being rude, and there was no call to be rude. Wilson accepted a glass of wine and was careful to drink it slowly. She sat in an armchair, long legs swung over one of the arms, and chatted merrily to him about movies, books, work. It was the first time Wilson had actually talked to her for any length of time, and he found himself warming to her despite himself. She might be screwing up House's life but... he could see why House liked her. And not just for the obvious.

"You were just finalizing your divorce when I last saw you," she said at one point, running a fingertip around the edge of her wine glass.

"That's right," Wilson confirmed. "It's all over and done with now."

"Isn't it a shame," she said. "Greg's got that photograph of the two of you at your wedding, both of you so cute in your tuxes. You look so... _happy _in that. Such a shame it all had to go wrong."

Wilson gulped a little: he wasn't at all sure where House kept that photo. Nowhere obvious on display: it must be someplace fairly private.

It was midnight when she drained the last of the bottle and said, "I think I'll crash here tonight. You don't mind, do you?"

"Um, of course not." Like he could say anything else.

"I'm just wondering if you mind if I take the bedroom." Tigris lowered a long set of eyelashes in a mischievous wink. Wilson felt his cheeks go pink; she was referring to how they'd first met, when she'd found him asleep in House's bed.

"Of course not. I'll be sleeping on the couch," Wilson said, very firmly.

She unwound herself from the armchair and took the bottle and glasses back into the kitchen. Wilson stacked all his books and papers on the floor, and hesitated over bedding: he had not, of course, been intending to sleep on the couch. He recollected that House kept an old sleeping bag in his closet: that would do. Wilson went into the bedroom and found it on the top shelf.

He reached up, pulled the sleeping bag down, along with an old spare pillow, and turned around to find Tigris standing only a few inches away.

"You don't have to sleep on the couch," she said, her voice low, and Wilson smelled violets and lavender, felt her breath on his face, saw the outline of nipples standing out from that red sweater.

"Uh. Yes I do," he said, and hated that his voice had suddenly gone hoarse. He was glad of the large armful of sleeping bag and pillow keeping them apart.

"You can sleep in here. We don't have to... _do_ anything," she said. "We could just carry on talking. I enjoyed our talk just now, didn't you?"

For a wild stupid moment Wilson seriously considered this as an option, then mercifully, sanity prevailed. "I did, but I really must get some sleep now, and so should you. I'll be on the couch--"

He bolted for the door and didn't look back.

He settled himself down in the sleeping bag on the couch for the night, uneasily aware of Tigris in the bedroom, rather afraid she might come sneaking out to join him in the middle of the night. Fortunately she didn't, and after a couple of hours of fretting and trying to get rid of his hard-on by mentally reciting his way through all the bones of the body, Wilson eventually managed to fall asleep.

* * *

The next morning Wilson was poking around in House's kitchen, wondering what to make for breakfast and whether Tigris would want anything, when he heard the front door slam: House was home.

Wilson came out into the living room from the kitchen at the exact same moment as Tigris came out from the bedroom: House, standing looking tired and drawn, looked from one to the other in speechless astonishment.

"Hey, Greg," Tigris said brightly. "Sorry to miss you last night. I crashed here, hope you don't mind. James kept me company." She was fully dressed, and walked over to the door. "I have to go, I've got a tennis lesson at eleven. I'll try and catch you later."

She picked up her purse and jacket, kissed the still dumbfounded House on the mouth, turned and blew a cheeky kiss in Wilson's direction, and left.

House then recovered his voice and demanded, "What the _fuck?_"

"She turned up here last night, and made a pass at me," Wilson said bluntly, figuring House really ought to know.

"Surprise surprise," House said, then asked abruptly, "So, did you fuck her?"

"No!" Wilson was indignant that House would even wonder. "What do you take me for?"

"Oh come off it, Wilson!" House snapped. "She's hot, she likes you, you've never been able to keep it in your pants--"

"She's your _girlfriend_, Christ!"

"God, have I finally discovered where Jimmy Wilson draws the line?" House drawled.

Wilson was speechless with indignation. As he stood wondering how to respond, he saw House's eye run over the couch, with the rumpled sleeping bag and pillow at one end.

"You slept in my old sleeping bag," House observed, a note of amusement in his voice.

"Yes." Wilson realized with relief that House believed him. Thank fuck for that.

House shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. "I've always wondered what it would be like to have sex in that sleeping bag. With someone else, that is."

Wilson frowned, working this out. "You mean... you've jerked off in there?" He grimaced.

"Of course I have," House said briskly. "I've had that sleeping bag since I was fourteen, it's been all over the world and saw a lot of adolescent juices flow.--Oh _relax_, Wilson, it's been washed. A couple of times, anyway. Over the years. "

Wilson covered his eyes with a hand. "Thank you for that information, House."

House walked across the room, reached out and hooked an arm around Wilson's shoulders. "You know, sharing a sleeping bag is a recommended survival technique. If you're stranded on a mountain in the snow with someone else, you should both crawl into the same sleeping bag to keep warm, stave off hypothermia. It could save your life."

"I'm sure that could come in very useful." Wilson looked down at the sleeping bag. "Although I don't actually think more than one person could fit in there."

"I think maybe it's time to find out," House responded, and Wilson broke into a smile, and House leaned forward, and they kissed. House's lips were surprisingly gentle: Wilson read a small apology into it, _sorry I doubted you_. He kissed back, suddenly wholehearted, and fast recovering the erection he had so painfully willed away the previous night.

House eventually pulled back and said, a trifle husky, "Sleeping bag sex ahoy. No clothes, there's not going to be room for anything surplus to requirements..."

Wilson pulled off his T-shirt and jeans obediently, dropped his boxer shorts, and climbed into the sleeping bag. It felt a little strange to be naked inside it, and the thought of an adolescent House masturbating in there gave him a sudden thrill.

It also felt very snug. "There's just no way you'll fit in here too, House."

"We'll see about that." House stripped swiftly, revealing he too was already erect: Wilson's own cock surged with interest at the sight. House knelt on the floor next to the couch and reached for the zipper on the top of the sleeping bag. Wilson closed his eyes as House unzipped it very slowly and gently from top to bottom: it sounded just like a fly being undone, except that the sound went on and on and on, giving him the impression of being stripped utterly bare in one long glorious movement.

Then House clambered in next to him, facing away from him. "Gotta be spoons, to fit together--"

House pushed himself back against Wilson, and Wilson gasped involuntarily as his chest met House's back and his cock pushed upward, resting between House's ass cheeks. Wilson had one arm upwards, the other tucked rather awkwardly downwards, as the noise of the zipper started again. House pulling it carefully upwards this time, sucking the sleeping bag closed around both their bodies.

"You want to watch that--" Wilson couldn't help but say, as the zipper crept up towards House's crotch.

"Like I hadn't thought of that!" House eased the zipper up, shielding his groin with his other hand. And suddenly the temperature rocketed by one hundred degrees, as they really were locked together inside the sleeping bag, rammed up alongside each other.

There was no room to thrust, no room to do anything except rock and press, and only then if they rocked together so the sleeping bag moved with them. Wilson pushed against House, and House pushed back, and they built up a rhythm. Wilson's face was pressed up against the back of House's neck. Unable to do anything with his hands, he nipped at House's skin, chewing at the triangle of hair on the nape of House's neck as it tickled his nose.

The taste of hair and sweat sent waves of desire down towards Wilson's groin. The body heat all over and around them was intense, and especially around his cock, where it was hotter than Wilson thought he could bear for very long. He could feel House taking shallow, panting breaths, trying to wriggle where there was no space to wriggle, trying to jerk his cock up against fabric and metal teeth.

Heat and friction and sheer proximity, _fuck,_ Wilson felt his cock swelling, engorging, this wasn't going to last long. Wilson shut his eyes, feeling the fabric of the sleeping bag clinging tightly to his back, and House's naked sweating skin and jutting shoulderblades pressed against his chest; House's ass cushioning his crotch, House's thighs pushed up against his own thighs. Wilson ground his teeth in a huge effort to stop himself biting House's shoulder, and came with a small sticky explosion up against House's tailbone. A minute later House squirmed too in orgasm, then his whole body went limp.

They lay there for no more than a few seconds before Wilson felt the heat becoming unbearable; he muttered, "Too freaking _hot!-_-" and House reached out and yanked down the zipper. Air rushed blissfully all around them and they pulled apart with some relief.

Wilson breathed gratefully, but the feeling of suffocation didn't immediately lift. It had somehow been almost _too_ good; so intense, so powerful that it scared him. He felt an abrupt need for breathing space--and not only from the confines of the sleeping bag.

"Might finally be time to get a new sleeping bag," House said rather ruefully, holding up his right hand and shaking it. Wilson peered over House's shoulder and saw one side of the bag was stuck firmly to House's hand.

"Gross," Wilson said, thankful for the moment of lightness to detract from the sudden cloud of dread he had felt settle on him. Wilson then found he was himself rather stuck to House's ass; he started to laugh, and House joined in.

* * *

The following day Bonnie arrived in Boston. House met her for the first time over a late lunch with Wilson; House took very little notice of her, indeed hardly spoke to her before he dashed off to go to work in answer to a page. Wilson and Bonnie went on to visit the exhibition, which they both enjoyed very much.

Over dinner and a few glasses of wine afterwards, Bonnie told Wilson the latest news of her ex, he had started making heavy breathing phone calls to her answering machine. Duly concerned for her, Wilson walked Bonnie back to her hotel, and went back up to her room with her for coffee.

He was startled when it turned out she wasn't interested in coffee at all, but rather in throwing her arms around him and kissing him, hard. But his cock responded swiftly; he remembered the desire he'd felt for some space, some room, and he wasn't inclined to resist. Because being with House, and _only_ House, was simultaneously the most splendid and exhilarating and yet also the most terrifying and daunting place to be.

END OF PART 11

TBC. Next part: Wilson gets married, again.

A/N: You can read about Bonnie's first meeting with House in When House Met The Wilson Wives.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 12  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** the ever reliable triedunture

**Summary:** History repeats itself as House gets a hot girlfriend, Wilson encounters the bartender he met back in part 10, and Wilson gets married for the second time.  
**Excerpt:** Wilson ran the tap and splashed water on his face. "House, tell me I'm not making a mistake."

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 12**

Wilson arrived at House's apartment and waved a triumphant envelope. "I got it!"

"I knew it," House said swiftly and smugly, and when Wilson shook his head and laughed, House added, "No, I really did know: I found the list of newly appointed residents on the Mass Gen mainframe yesterday."

"You!" Wilson said in friendly exasperation, and punched House lightly on the arm.

"So, you'll be switching to Boston?..." House raised a querying eyebrow.

"As soon as possible." Wilson had finished the last of his exams; he was through with med school and keen to move on to the residency he'd worked so hard to get. He really felt things were going well for him. "I need to find an apartment somewhere around here. I'm gonna go looking tomorrow."

"I know a place," House said immediately. "Guy in my department just got an attending post in Philly, he starts straight away. He's got an apartment two blocks down from here."

Wilson hesitated. "How big is it?"

"Dunno. Same size as this one, I think." House looked curiously at Wilson. "Why?"

"Well, Bonnie's moving to Boston with me," Wilson said diffidently. "She doesn't have any reason to stay in New York anymore... she thought she might as well look for jobs here as there... and to save money, we could share an apartment... we kind of live in each others' apartments anyway already..."

There was silence for a moment, then House gave an expansive shrug. "Cool."

Wilson looked hard at House, who returned an innocent blue gaze.

Wilson didn't say any more, but he was suspicious; that had been far too easy. He'd been expecting a lot of grief from House about moving in with Bonnie, they hadn't been going out that long after all... He'd even wondered if House might say _move in with me_, and had been prepared for an apologetic counter-argument as to why this was not a good idea... apparently not required.

Wilson couldn't decide if he was relieved or sorry.

* * *

Wilson soon found out why: House had a new diversion of his own. Wilson and Bonnie were walking down Newbury Street out shopping one day, a couple of weeks after they'd moved to Boston, when Bonnie said suddenly, "There's House, and look, who's that with him?"

House was sitting in a coffee shop, next to an extremely attractive Latino girl who Wilson didn't recognize at all. They were sitting close, and House had an arm thrown casually around her shoulders.

"I... don't know."

"He's got a girlfriend," Bonnie said, excitement at new gossip in her voice. "She's very pretty..."

"Um, do you want a coffee?" Wilson suggested, already moving towards the door.

They went in, and Bonnie went straight up to House and said brightly, "Hey, Greg, nice to see you! Won't you introduce us to your new friend?" She beamed at the Latino girl, who smiled back, showing straight white teeth.

Wilson hung back a little awkwardly, but House seemed unfazed. "This is Raquel. Raquel, _dice hola a Wilson y a Bonnie._"  
"Hello Wilson and Bonnie," Raquel said in a clear but awkward voice. She smiled again, a little shyly. "Please excuse my poor English."

"Raquel is originally from Cuba," House explained. "She came to the US a few years ago and is here working at the museum for a year, as a curator in the art of Ancient Americas section... she's improving my Spanish and I'm improving her English."

"Welcome--to--the--United--States--of--America!" Bonnie said, very slowly, exaggerating each word, as if she was speaking to a particularly stupid child. Wilson felt himself blush slightly and he tried not to look at House's smirk as she went on, "My--name--is--Bon--nie."

"Hello, Bonnie," Raquel said gravely.

"And I'm James Wilson. Pleased to meet you, Raquel," Wilson said, trying to sound as unpatronising as possible.

"I am very happy to meet you. James?" Raquel snapped her fingers suddenly, and said something swift in Spanish to House; Wilson didn't understand any of it, but caught the word _Hi-meh_. House laughed a little and nodded, looking vaguely embarrassed. Wilson and Bonnie looked enquiringly at him, and House translated, "She said, you're _Jimmy_, the one who sent me the girlie postcard."

"Oh." Wilson laughed too, a little nervous. She meant the one he'd sent from his honeymoon; he knew House kept it thumbtacked to a shelf above his bed. Wilson hoped she hadn't looked too hard at the back of the card.

* * *

"So. Raquel. Tell me everything," Wilson collared House the next day at the hospital over lunch.

House shrugged and bit into one of Wilson's sandwiches. "Met her about a month ago at the museum; she was trying to explain an exhibit to a dumb-ass soccer mom who thought that if she just spoke louder Raquel would understand her. I translated the dumb-ass question and Raquel was very grateful. She's paranoid about her English, I said I'd correct her English if she corrected my Spanish, and we just went on from there."

"You broke up with Tigris?" Wilson felt the need to clarify.

"Wilson, meeting Raquel _finally _gave me the perfect reason to break up with Tig," House said fervently, and Wilson understood from this that whereas Tig had been a Bad Influence, Raquel was a Good Influence, and House recognized this and was glad about it.

Fine, Wilson was glad too. To a point. So long as it didn't change some things too much.

"You want to go out for a drink tonight?" Wilson said, casually, tilting his head on one side and dipping his eyelids.

House stared back at Wilson, and Wilson knew House was getting the message loud and clear; sex was on offer afterwards. If House still wanted it, now Raquel was on the scene.

"I'd say no," House said presently, "except somehow I think you'd get your way eventually anyway."

Wilson smiled at that, and bit into an apple.

* * *

Over time, Wilson didn't really see much of Raquel. Bonnie thought Raquel was stupid (although it was patently obvious to Wilson that nothing could have been further from the truth) and Raquel clearly found Bonnie puzzling. And Wilson was now living with Bonnie, and House was spending most of his free time with Raquel, and when Wilson saw House it was usually just the two of them for a guy's night out; Wilson didn't have any reason to spend much time with both House and Raquel.

When he did, on occasion, Wilson found it amusing to sit back and watch while they bantered away. House talking in Spanish and her in English, each pausing occasionally to correct the other, while endlessly, shamelessly, flirting. They made a handsome couple. She was tall, with short raven dark hair and flawless skin, and House openly lusted over her in public, and she teased him back. She was perfecting his already very good Spanish, although he sighed about the Cuban accent he was acquiring.

Wilson resolved to learn Spanish. One day. Maybe he'd watch some telenovellas. Although realistically, he knew he was unlikely to get round to this for the next fifteen years or so.

* * *

Wilson and Bonnie spent the holiday season that year in New Jersey. Hanukkah, Christmas and New Year went by as they traveled first to his family, then to hers. They discovered neighborhoods they both knew, even a couple of old mutual acquaintances. His parents loved her, obviously pleased to see him moving on after his divorce. Her parents loved him, apparently relieved to see she had finally managed to rid herself of the abusive quarterback boyfriend.

They were at a party at Bonnie's sister's house late on New Years Eve, discussing how great it was that they liked each others families and got on so well, when Bonnie said with a laugh, "We're so well suited, we should get married."

"Maybe we should," Wilson said, being affectionate, a little drunk and giddy.

She stared at him. "You really think?"

She was wide-eyed and agog; her mouth slightly open in anticipation. As if her dream had just come true.

Wilson hesitated, and couldn't bring himself to spoil the moment. He said, "Uh yeah. Why not?"

Bonnie screamed a little, then hailed her sister across the room. "Hey, listen up! We're _engaged!"_

The sister came bounding up, screaming back, "No shit! That's so _awesome!"_

And that was how, somehow, Wilson found himself not only toasting the New Year in but also being toasted by the entire party with congratulations.

The following morning he was a little shocked by what had happened, but by this time Bonnie had called both her Mom and his Mom to tell them the news. All Moms and Dads were duly delighted.

And on reflection, Wilson figured why not indeed? They'd been living together a while now and got on really well. He was very fond of her, yes, he loved her. She could be a little silly and somewhat helpless at times, but he mostly found that endearing. She needed someone to take care of her... he could do that.

* * *

House had spent the holiday season comfortably ensconced in his apartment with Raquel; English, Spanish and body language all playing an important role in a cozy couple of weeks. Back at work a few weeks later, House was having lunch with Wilson when Wilson said far too casually, "Hey, House, there's something I need to tell you."

"Don't tell me, let me guess. You're pregnant," House said, munching chips.

"That's right, and you're the father," Wilson said, poker-faced. "No, it's about Bonnie."

"Oh God, she's not, is she?" House said with apprehension.

"No, no, no," Wilson said hastily."But we are engaged."

"You have to be fucking kidding me."

Wilson sighed. "I knew you'd be happy for me."

House snorted, taking a few seconds to gather his thoughts on this unexpected development. "Why the hell do you have to _marry _her? You've known her, what, six months?"

"A bit longer than that. So what?" Wilson spread out his hands.

House shook a finger at him. "You're jumping in way too quick because you're trying to compensate for the fact that your first marriage was a disaster from start to finish. You're just pathologically trying to prove you can make this one work this time."

"I love her."

"Oh, crap. Give me a break." House crumpled up the empty chip bag. "I know you think you do, but actually you pity her. She's just so pathetic, it just feeds your emotional vampire-ism."

Wilson shook his head. "I know you don't think much of her, but honestly, House, you've never even tried to get to know her. Is the lecture finished yet?"

House glared at him. "I'm not getting through to you, am I?"

"No." Wilson was firm. "We're getting married, later this year. And its not going to be a big do like last time – it'll be a small wedding, near both our families in Jersey. And-–" Wilson gulped slightly, then went on-–"I'd really like you to be my best man."

House was rendered temporarily speechless. When he eventually managed to speak, he barked, "Again? You have to be joking. Do you _want _to put a hex on everything before you even start?"

"No, I just want you to be there with me," Wilson said patiently.

"Shouldn't it be your brother's turn this time?" House demanded. "He might do more than punch me in the nose when he finds out."

"I can deal with Jon," Wilson said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. "Anyway, I don't want to have a bachelor party this time."

"Then what's the point in being a best man?" House groused. "We have to at least give you a send-off to remember."

"Yes, you can do that," Wilson said brightly, and House realized he'd agreed to do it. Again. He rolled his eyes, and argued some more, but Wilson wasn't budging.

* * *

Despite Wilson's efforts, some things were the same as last time. Bonnie spent much of the next six months flitting back and forth between Trenton and Boston, being fitted for a wedding dress, booking a hall, and worrying over seating plans. It kept her busy, since she couldn't seem to find a job that suited her. She thought she might work in sales, but hadn't found the right area for her talents yet. Planning her wedding was a pleasant distraction from all that.

A few days ahead of the wedding Bonnie went out to New Jersey to oversee preparations, and it was agreed that Wilson, House and Raquel would travel out the day before the ceremony.

The night before that, their night together in Boston, House insisted that he and Wilson have their own mini bachelor party, or at least go out and getting plastered.

"We should only go to bars we've never been to before," House declared, and Wilson laughed and said, w_hy not._

It was fun. They rolled from street to street looking for bars, avoiding places either of them recalled visiting, going into unfamiliar doors. They were nearing the end of an enjoyable evening, and House was pushing open the door of what he thought might be the last bar of the night before they headed back to his apartment (that being tacitly understood by them both), when Wilson suddenly stopped dead behind him.

"Wait. I think I've been here before."

"Well, I haven't," House said breezily, and strode inside. Wilson followed; it was busy. Wilson looked around from side to side as House propelled him towards the bar.

"I've definitely been here before..." Wilson frowned, the alcohol apparently having affected his memory.

House shoved people aside without compunction, and they reached the bar.

A bartender turned towards them and said, "Hello gentlemen, what can I get you?" and then stopped, holding a couple of glasses midair. He was looking at Wilson.

House looked at Wilson too, and saw two dark red spots of color forming on Wilson's cheeks.

"Hey," Wilson mumbled.

"Hey," the bartender responded, putting the glasses down on the counter. "How are you? It must be, what, a year?"

They knew each other? House was immediately fascinated and took a closer look at the bartender. He was tall and thin, with short bleached blond hair and a diamond stud glinting in his right ear. Very interesting.

"You were getting divorced when we met before, I think?" the bartender said to Wilson. "Did that go through?"

"Yeah." Wilson wasn't really looking at the bartender, but he certainly wasn't looking at House. "It did. But... funnily enough, I'm getting married again now. Day after tomorrow, actually."

The barman peered at Wilson, apparently decided he wasn't joking, and said, tone was heavily overlaid with irony, "Huh. Then I guess congratulations are in order." He reached for a bottle under the counter. "So what's this, bachelor party time?"

"He wouldn't have a party, second time around," House butted in. "What do I know, I'm just the best man."

The bartender looked at House and suddenly his eyebrows, also bleached blond, shot upwards. He looked at Wilson and said, "This is the _best friend._"

"Uh, yeah." Wilson's face was as red as House could ever remember seeing it, and Wilson was looking determinedly at the floor.

"Pleased to meet you," the bartender said in a friendly voice, and he sloshed whiskey generously into the two glasses. "On the house. Second time around as best man, too?"

"That's right. It's an exclusive sort of club, I like to think," House said nonsensically, his brain working as fast as it possibly could. Which was some way short of full tilt, unfortunately.

"Thanks for the drinks, uh, nice to see you," Wilson said, and grabbed both his own and House's glasses and headed away from the bar as fast as he could. House lingered for a second, hoping for a few more words with the bartender, but it was just too busy. House followed Wilson to a quieter corner of the room.

Wilson thrust one glass at House and drained the other. "Drink up, we're going."

"Not so fast, sonny Jim," House protested, and took a deliberately small sip. "What's the story?"

"There is no story. I _knew _I'd been in this bar before. I guess I talked to him then." Wilson's cheeks were fiery.

"Talked to him? Must've been a real heart-to-heart." House stared at Wilson, who didn't meet his eye. "What, did you sleep with him or something?" There was a moment's silence. "Christ, you _did_." House was incredulous. "You did!"

Wilson threw up a hand. "It was nothing, it was just a one night thing... Cath had just thrown me out, I didn't have anywhere to live, I'd come to Boston. You were out with Tigris, I'd had a few drinks, I suppose I just wanted to talk to someone, and... he was a nice guy, we went to a club..."

Suddenly House remembered the evening in question, and in particular he remembered the state in which Wilson had come home the following morning. "Fucking hell. I remember. I was at the Locke-Ober eating oysters... You came back and couldn't even walk straight..." He stared at Wilson, suddenly seeing him through new eyes. "What the _fuck!_ I had no idea."

Wilson shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"Always led by your dick!" House's voice rose in sudden anger. "I always knew you were a soft touch for a sob story from a small brunette with a decent pair of tits, and now I find out you also can't resist blond barmen with a sympathetic ear. And a sympathetic earring."

"What difference does it make? Why are you judging me?" Wilson was defensive. "It was a year ago! My marriage had just collapsed! And you were out with your girlfriend. Why shouldn't I do what the hell I wanted?"

House took a gulp of his drink, and found he'd drained the whole glass. "Let's go."

* * *

They caught a cab, and traveled back to House's apartment in silence. House was full of conflicting emotions. The rational part of his mind said _so fucking what_. So Wilson had had a one night stand with a bartender a year ago. If it had been a barmaid instead of a barman, House would have despaired momentarily, called Wilson a slut and moved right on.

Instead of which House felt a distinct tinge of betrayal. And it was ridiculous. What difference did it make that the bartender was a blond boy instead of a blonde babe? He and Wilson had never been exclusive, House just didn't expect it from Wilson, or want it particularly himself. And goodness knows it wasn't like either of them hadn't been with other men before they'd met... it just hadn't happened since, as far as House was aware.

As they arrived at House's apartment, Wilson said quietly, "If you'd rather I didn't stay over, just say."

"No. Stay over." House was gruff. He didn't know what he wanted, except that he didn't want Wilson to go.

They went inside. House closed the door behind them; it was dark, but he didn't turn on the light. Instead he asked abruptly, "What did you do with him?"

Wilson stood with his hands on his hips. House couldn't see his expression in the darkness, but the stance said it all. "Do you _really_ want to know?"

House didn't know if he did or not. "Yes." No. Perhaps.

"Fine." Wilson's voice rang out low but clear. "We went to a club. We danced. I sucked him off in the bathroom. And later on, I fucked him up in the ass in the alleyway outside."

_Holy crap. _House found himself gasping; he hadn't expected such a blunt reply. What was Wilson thinking?

And yet--Wilson hadn't spoken lightly, he'd told House this because he'd known it would have a certain effect. House didn't _want_ to be turned on by this, but damn it all to hell, he was.

"And yes, of course we used a condom," Wilson added.

"Wilson, you're a fucking slut," House hissed, and practically leaped on top of Wilson.

House fell on Wilson with greedy, grasping hands, pulling at Wilson's shirt and yanking it out from his pants; thrusting his hands up inside, running them over Wilson's chest. Wilson responded in kind, fairly snapping at House's mouth and neck while wrestling off House's T-shirt. They stripped rapidly, House suddenly desperate to have Wilson naked; Wilson apparently feeling the same about House.

As soon as House spied Wilson's cock, long and red and half-erect already, he grabbed it and pressed it up against his own rapidly stiffening one. Wilson uttered a very pleasing, "_God, House,_" as House skimmed a drop of pre-come off the tip of Wilson's cock with his thumb, and ran it lightly down his shaft.

The two of them stood up close, rubbing against each other practically in a frenzy, before House pulled back and breathed, "Suck me off like you did him."

Wilson pushed House towards the couch; House sat down with a bump, and Wilson dropped to his knees on the floor. House heard himself squeak as he felt his cock disappear down Wilson's throat; _fuck!_ Wilson practically swallowed him at first, then switched to small shallow sucks, licks and kisses across the tip; House whined and bucked, and then pulled back and out to climax across Wilson's face, spurting across Wilson's nose and forehead..

Wilson sat back on his heels and ran a hand over his face.

"He do that?" House muttered between breaths.

"Actually, yes," Wilson gasped, and House found himself spurting just a little more come at those words. "Gonna let me fuck you in an alleyway?"

"Too cold out," House's brain was barely allowing coherent speech. "Ass fuck in here do?"

"If we're standing up against a wall," Wilson said, and House almost felt himself come again, but didn't because he was now utterly spent.

Wilson scrabbled around on the floor for his jeans, finding his wallet in a pocket and then a condom in the wallet. He rolled it on, while House wobbled to his feet and tottered towards the nearest wall. A few seconds later, Wilson was right behind him, nipping at the back of his neck, running hands across his back, and then down to feel his ass.

"Spread your legs," Wilson muttered, and House shuddered a little and obeyed, leaning on the wall with his hands and jutting out his ass. He felt something cold oozing, and then some fairly perfunctory probing, and then Wilson's cock, long and hard and deep and intrusive. House whimpered and forced himself to relax, not actually too difficult given that his legs felt like jelly after his recent orgasm; he could barely stand. Wilson leaned forward, covering House's hands on the wall with his own, supporting House's body with his own weight; moaning into House's hair with each thrust. He came with a final high-pitched gasp of _"House,"_ pumping furiously up inside; then they both collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"Hope you enjoyed your wedding present," House murmured after a few minutes.

Wilson snorted with laughter. "I don't think that was actually on the gift list."

House snuggled down comfortably into Wilson's chest and muttered, "No, but it's prime material for my best man speech."

"I know you're kidding." Wilson sounded confident, but House knew with a twinge of satisfaction that Wilson would be worried about this right up until House sat down at the end of his speech.

* * *

The five hour journey to Trenton the next day was a little strained, but could, House thought, have been worse. They left late, both still hungover, met up with Raquel and spent the day traveling. He and Raquel checked into a hotel while Wilson went to stay with his family before the wedding the following day.

House could remember very little about Wilson's first wedding, and looking back, he remembered even less about the second. It was much smaller and more family oriented, but many features were still the same. There was still a mindless swirl of meringue dresses, an excess of proud mothers mushroomed by hats, and a steep climb of white marzipan and icing resting majestically on a side table. Wilson's two small nieces were bridesmaids, and spent the whole time shouting and running around in straight lines like tiny white tractors, until contact with a hard surface deflected them in another direction.

It all went smoothly. House behaved himself in his speech, which was only slightly more cynical than the one he had given last time, and avoided being openly contemptuous of the bride or mentioning bartenders with diamond earrings. Wilson looked duly relieved when House sat down.

It also went smoothly because Wilson kept Jonathan well out of House's way, spending most of the time with his brother when he wasn't being photographed with his new wife. House was quite happy with that, as explaining American wedding customs to Raquel in Spanish kept him nicely occupied, but he was perturbed to notice Wilson getting more and more drunk as the afternoon progressed. At one point he noticed Jonathan take a silver hip flask from a pocket and offer it surreptitiously to Wilson. Wilson took a swig without demurring, which gave House the impression this was not the first time he'd done it that day.

It was late in the afternoon, guests were on the dance floor, and it was nearing the point where Wilson and Bonnie were due to leave, when House found himself alone with Wilson. Raquel was chatting to a relative of Wilson's who knew some Spanish, Bonnie was saying goodbye to her mom and sister, and Wilson came stumbling up to House with a, "Hey."

"You look pale," House observed, and caught Wilson by the arm to stop him falling over. He smelt mint on Wilson's breath, although the mint failed to disguise the raw alcohol behind. "Bonnie will think she's married a lush."

"Huh," Wilson said, and his white face turned a little green. "House, I think I'm gonna be sick..."

For fuck's sake. "Not in here you're not." House grabbed Wilson's elbow and propelled him out of the back of the room into a long corridor. House pulled Wilson along a few feet, pushed open the nearest door, and found a kitchen.

House glanced around; empty, long chrome surfaces heaped with unused linen and clean plates. He pulled the door shut behind them, and propelled Wilson towards the nearest sink. "Right, _now _you can throw up."

Wilson leaned over the sink, but he wasn't sick, and after a moment or two standing still, color started to return to his face.

"You're an idiot," House said brutally. "Grooms do not have the right to get drunk at their wedding. They have an obligation to stay sober and talk to relatives and deal with stuff."

"I know. I'm okay now." Wilson ran the tap and splashed water on his face. "House, tell me I'm not making a mistake."

"You're not making a mistake," House parroted back.

Wilson groaned. "But _am_ I, House? Really?"

House hesitated, and when he replied, he chose his words carefully. "Grooms should not _want_ to be seeking oblivion in a whiskey flask at their wedding, unless there's something wrong."

Wilson was silent, leaning on the sink.

"But you've done it now," House added with false bonhomie. "So you need to make the best of it."

"Yes. Yes, I do. House, I haven't said thank you... your speech was great." Wilson was suddenly fervent. "I do appreciate it."

And Wilson turned towards House and leaned forward, and House did the same, and they kissed. House tasted whiskey and freshmints and a trace of fruitcake. They exchanged several brief, tender kisses; mouths sucking swiftly on lips, tongues rolling around teeth, then one long, passionate kiss that neither of them wanted to end. House put a hand on Wilson's shoulder, and Wilson put a hand on House's chest. Wilson briefly tweaked a button as if to undo House's shirt, but refrained: House shivered ever so slightly anyway, and ran a hand delicately through Wilson's hair.

Eventually House pulled back and said gruffly, "You have to go..."

Wilson nodded, squared his shoulders, and followed House out of the kitchen.

Wilson and Bonnie said goodbye to their guests and drove off on their honeymoon, a low key local vacation, and returned a fortnight later with a small white Westie puppy.

END OF PART 12

A/N: TBC. Next part: Wilson and Bonnie struggle with married life; House takes Wilson on a road trip, and they encounter a gray-eyed fair-haired stranger in a bar.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 13  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta**: the ever splendid triedunture  
**A/N: **Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. Later parts drafted and emerging slowly.

**Summary:** Wilson and Bonnie struggle with married life; House takes Wilson on a road trip, and they encounter a gray-eyed fair-haired stranger in a bar. (The encounter with the stranger in the bar is told separately in Let Me Take You To A... and its sequel Gay Bar Two).  
**Excerpt: **_House sprang to his feet. "Jimmy, we're going on a trip!" he announced. "I've packed a bag for you."_

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 13**

"House?" Wilson let himself into House's apartment with hesitation. House was there, flat on his back on the couch, arms splayed and one leg thrown across the back of the couch. The room was lit only by one dim lamp, and some rather melancholy blues was whining from the stereo.

House opened his eyes as Wilson came in, but didn't move. Wilson went over to the couch and perched next to House.

"I just heard, the Ruschs are retiring," Wilson said cautiously.

"Yeah. Andrea announced it to us Infectious Diseases staff this afternoon." House stared at the ceiling. "We knew she had surgery for cancer a long time ago... didn't realize it had recurred."

Wilson nodded somberly. "What will happen to you and her other fellows?"

"One of the senior attendings will take us on." House shuddered briefly. Wilson pinched his nose, worried at this. House had worked hard and progressed quickly through his residency under the patronage of Dr. Andrea Rusch, and had been glad to go on to work a fellowship under her. It seemed unlikely that any successor as Head of Infectious Diseases would be as tolerant to House's idiosyncrasies as she had been.

"Second shitty news in a week," House added.

"Oh?" Wilson hadn't seen much of House the last week or so. Bonnie had gotten involved in the residents' group in their apartment block, and Wilson had found himself taking minutes at their last meeting. He had no intention of doing so again: Bonnie was keen enough for both of them, anyway.

"Raquel got another job."

That sounded like good news: the end of Raquel's year-long contract at the Museum of Fine Arts had been looming for a while now. Wilson waited for more.

"At the Smithsonian," House amplified, and shut his eyes.

"Oh." Wilson remembered the period he and House had spent traveling up and down between New York and Boston, how increasingly difficult it had been. Washington DC would be twice as bad. "Well, long distance relationships can be hard, but--"

"No." House cut him off. "I told her I wasn't going to spend eight hours driving at a time, that it would be a waste of time for her too, and we'd be better off just splitting up now."

This was bad news. Raquel had been a great stabilizing influence on House. Wilson knew perfectly well that without her around, House was more likely to do stupid things, to take risks, and to drag Wilson along for the ride.

"And... she was okay with that?" Wilson queried.

House shrugged. "No. She was pretty upset, actually."

Wilson realized that House was pretty upset, too, and the terse description probably masked a long drawn-out painful, tearful fight. Wilson dredged up one of his very few Spanish phrases. _"Lo siento." I'm sorry.  
_  
House smiled, just a little bit. His eyes were dark blue pools in the half-light, and he reached out and curved a palm around Wilson's hand. "Speak Spanish to me, _Hi-meh_."

Wilson smiled back, and shook his head. "That's my limit, I'm afraid." He squeezed House's hand, then reached up to run a finger across House's jaw. House was even more stubbled than usual; Wilson suspected he hadn't tried to shave since Raquel had left. Wilson felt the small hairs prick against his fingertips and send tiny pulses through his body towards his groin.

_"Pienso que tú es muy atractivo y quisiera tener sexo contigo,"_ House murmured.

Wilson raised an interrogative bushy eyebrow.

_"Wanna fuck?_" House coarsely translated in a low, quiet voice, and Wilson dipped his head to kiss House on the mouth. House tasted of coffee and cigars: he kissed back, and Wilson kicked off his shoes and scrambled up onto the couch beside House.

House levered himself up on an elbow, then moved to lie on top of Wilson; Wilson squirmed a little, then twitched as House deftly plucked his fly undone. Wilson felt himself hardening swiftly as House reached inside his pants; then he heard the _zip_ of House's own fly, followed by his own voice exclaiming _fuck!_ out loud, at the feel of cock against cock. House's fully erect one rubbed against him, increasingly slippery as first House and then himself oozed a little pre-come.

Breathing fast, Wilson held onto House's shoulders and buried his face in House's neck, the two of them sweating and gasping and pumping up against each other. A couple of minutes later, House groaned heavily, leaned almost all his weight onto Wilson, and climaxed across Wilson's stomach. They were both almost fully dressed still, and Wilson felt stickiness spill across the front of his shirt. Wilson shut his eyes, jutted his hips upwards and came, spurting hard up against House's T-shirt.

They lay there so long afterwards that they found their clothes had stuck firmly together by the time they tried to pull apart.

"You gonna give that shirt to your wife to wash?" House mumbled, sounding far too amused at the idea

"You can do it with _your_ laundry," Wilson mumbled back.

"Laundry for sexual favors. I should have a price list," House grinned as he pulled his T-shirt off over his head, and then yanked down his jeans. Wilson gazed a little at House's bare chest and muscled thighs, and figured House could charge whatever he wanted.

* * *

For most of their first year of marriage, things had actually gone rather well for Wilson and Bonnie. They lived relatively peaceful lives, Wilson excelling in his residency, and House not interfering too much while he had other preoccupations. Bonnie still couldn't find a sales job that suited her, but she gradually developed a circle of friends among Boston dog owners. She started to socialize with people who attended the same dog obedience classes; she went for coffee with people who walked their dogs in the park at the same time she walked Hector.

With the departure of both Raquel and Dr. Andrea Rusch, House became a thorn in Bonnie's side. Chafing under the new leadership at work, and rudderless outside it, he never hesitated to borrow Wilson when he wanted to; to go out, to stay in, without paying any heed as to whether Bonnie minded. Wilson sensed House needed him, and did his best to be there: Bonnie thought House was callous; which of course he was.

One Friday night, Wilson arrived home only to find House sitting inside his apartment waiting for him. They never had got out of the habit of giving each other keys to where they lived. (This was something else that annoyed Bonnie).

"Hey, House," Wilson said, surprised.

House sprang to his feet. "Jimmy, we're going on a trip!" he announced. "I've packed a bag for you."

"Uh--what? A trip?"

"A road trip," House said briskly. "Don't all best friends do this at some point?"

Wilson found himself walking out of the door carrying an overnight bag. He wondered whether to leave a note for Bonnie, and realized that since he had no idea where he was going or when he was coming back--House was being very cryptic--there didn't seem much point. He could call her anytime, he would call when he had something to tell her. Anyway, he would have to be back for work on Monday, so wherever they were going, it wouldn't be for very long.

House was in a strange mood, even for him; Wilson could tell something was wrong, but not what. Clearly House needed to get something out of his system.

They took House's car and drove off southwards, avoiding the freeways and taking a more scenic route, vaguely following the coast but cutting inland too. Late in the evening, they stopped at a motel. Wilson wandered off to call Bonnie, and found himself relieved to get their answering machine. He recalled that she had been going out that evening, some dog owners' group which he was doing his best to stay away from. He left a message; _"Hi Bonnie, uh, I'm on a road trip with House. We're somewhere south, checking into a motel. Er--I'll call you tomorrow."  
_  
He hung up, feeling stupid, and went to find House, who had checked them into a double room without so much as blinking at the desk clerk. They slept that night like spoons, House with his arm thrown around Wilson, Wilson nestling backwards into House's chest, intimate but without having sex. Wilson thought House needed some time to get through whatever was bothering him.

Next day, Saturday, they drove on, and on, and on. Periodically Wilson suggested they might turn around and circle back, but House either ignored him or changed the subject.

Late in the afternoon, Wilson finally started to get fed up with the situation, put a note of sharpness into his voice, and said, "House, you may be on vacation, but if I'm going to get back to work for Monday morning, then we need to start turning around pretty damn soon. Tonight, really."

Without taking his eyes off the road, House said, "I got fired."

Wilson didn't say anything for a minute. He wasn't surprised--but he was sad. This was nothing new, Wilson knew that House had been kicked out of med school half way through Hopkins, and this was the second time House had been fired as far as he knew. House had a problem with authority, and probably always would. Wilson knew House was a genius, and doubted if any of House's fellow medical professionals would dispute that.

But was that enough? What if House's brilliance wasn't enough to save him, and he became unemployable, fired once too many times--what would he do then?

"I'm sorry," Wilson said eventually.

House shrugged, then added, "Actually, you're the one on vacation."

Wilson frowned. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are. You left your boss a vacation request form yesterday morning asking for a week off. And because you haven't taken a single vacation day in the last year since you went on your honeymoon, he signed it off, no problem."

"House--you _what?_" Wilson was outraged. And then, as the full realization of what House had said sank in, "But--but I can't take a week off now! I've got stuff to do--I've got shifts--appointments--"

"No you don"t. You also dropped your departmental secretary a memo asking her to rearrange your schedule next week. She was pretty pissed at the short notice, but she did it."

Wilson was left speechless. After a few minutes, he asked, "And did you also call my wife and tell her I'd be away for a week?"

"Naw," House said carelessly. "Figured you should probably do that one in person."

Wilson concentrated on breathing deeply for a moment, while he got past the impulse to grab the steering wheel and turn them right around.

They still hadn't spoken when they stopped at a diner half an hour later. And then Wilson opened his mouth just enough to tersely order a cheeseburger, fries and a beer. House ordered his own burger, then sat back in the booth and said with an air of diagnosis, "You're mad at me."

"Of course I'm fucking mad at you!" Wilson snapped. "You re-arrange my life and I'm not supposed to be mad? If you wanted me to take a week off, why didn't you just ask?"

"You would have said no," House said simply.

This was true. "I might not have," Wilson said fiercely. "And what am I supposed to tell Bonnie?"

House shrugged indifferently.

"House, I know you don't give a damn about her," Wilson said, struggling to keep his voice under control. "But I'd have thought you might give at least a bit of a damn about her reaction to _me, _as that affects _you_, after all."

"Don't you try and blame me for your crappy marriage," House said unexpectedly. "You married her for shit reasons and you're starting to realize that now. I bet you're not even gonna call her tonight, you won't dare."

Wilson was left speechless again. Fortunately his cheeseburger arrived at that moment and they were diverted from conversation for a minute.

House was quite right; Wilson didn't want to call Bonnie, and he didn't. Instead he ordered another beer, therefore silently telling House _you're driving the rest of this evening. _He then headed out to the car immediately after the meal, leaving House to pay the tab, which was something he never did.

House looked irritated when he joined Wilson at the car, and snarled, "You're making me pay for stuff _now?_ I just got fired, remember?"

"Yeah, _again_." Wilson got in the car and slammed the door. "If you could just button your lip once in while and do your job then maybe this wouldn't happen every other year."

House glared at him, started the car, and slammed out of the parking lot with a squeal of brakes.

They stopped for the night a short while afterwards when they came to a motel. In their double room (Wilson was determinedly letting House deal with the desk clerks) they circled around each other warily before House sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh.

"Fine," he said. "You want to go back, we'll go back."

Wilson was taken aback. "But--aren't we going somewhere?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter. If you want to go back, we'll go back tomorrow."

Wilson shut his eyes. House, reaching out in this clumsy, unaccustomed way, was enough to break his heart. If Wilson took this offer, so painfully made, he would have won--but House would have lost something, and Wilson didn't want that. Especially when he hadn't even figured out what it was yet.

"No. We'll go on." Wilson opened his eyes and sat down next to House. "Just--for God's sake give me some notice before you do something like this next time."

House reached out and put an arm round Wilson's shoulders, and pulled him close. They kissed deeply, then sank back onto the bed and twisted and squirmed against each other until both of them were spent.

* * *

The next day passed in a daze of winding road and sparkling waves, grainy sand and salt water, intimate knowledge of the inside of the car and easy, lazy conversation. Now that Wilson had made the decision to let House do whatever the hell he felt he had to do, he could relax.

Wilson steeled himself to call Bonnie and break the news that he wasn't coming back for work on Monday after all, but would instead be away for a week. Several minutes of incredulous fury later, she hung up on him. He didn't call back.

They passed through New York quickly without stopping, heading into New Jersey. Wilson was always happy to be in New Jersey, his family and and Bonnie's family both lived around the Trenton area. They didn't go in that direction, however, instead sticking to the coastal road.

And then they had a memorable encounter with a gray-eyed fair-haired stranger in a bar.

* * *

"Have you ever watched him suck another man's cock while you fuck him?" asked the stranger at the bar. "I tell you, you'd find it the biggest turn-on."

House stared back at the man in the biking leathers, feelings of outrage and jealous fury suddenly mingling and becoming confused with unexpected desire.

No, he hadn't ever watched Wilson suck another man's cock while fucking him; he'd barely even touched Wilson in front of anyone else until they'd arrived at this bar this evening, which had turned out unexpectedly to be a gay bar. And after all these years of only very furtive, subtle physical contact in public, it really wasn't easy to suddenly start being touchy-feely in front of other people, even complete strangers. Wilson had been very hesitant, and House over-compensating by being far more clingy than usual; he hadn't left Wilson's side. Until he'd had to; and then he'd come back to find this man coming on to Wilson, and Wilson, the _slut,_ not brushing him off nearly quickly enough. Not brushing him off at all, in fact.

Wilson was watching him now, and House knew Wilson was similarly shocked by the suggestion, and waiting for House to tell this stranger to fuck off and go hang himself, or possibly just punch the living daylights out of him.

But House could tell that Wilson was really, _really, _attracted to this man: could see from the exchanged glances, the dipped eyes, the small laughs, the flushed cheeks, the self-conscious running of fingers through hair. And although he could have frogmarched Wilson out right there and then, House sensed that perhaps this was not the best thing to do. Better maybe to give Wilson some space, some room, to find out what the hell this would be like; not to leave him dissatisfied, wondering about what might have been...

Also, House remembered the one-night stand that Wilson had had with the diamond-earring-studded barman after his first divorce; hearing about it, a year afterwards, it _had_ been a turn-on. House had been there in spirit since; imagining watching Wilson fucking the man up the ass in a dark alleyway, all sweat and moonlight and throaty gasps... The idea that something similar could happen _now_, for real...

"Ground rules," House answered, and Wilson's jaw dropped in astonishment as he listened to House negotiate terms of a threesome.

* * *

Forty-eight hours later, back on the road, Wilson dozed intermittently in the passenger seat while wondering if he and House should talk about what had happened with the stranger in the bar. They'd had a night of feverish fucking in the motel, followed unexpectedly by a day at the stranger's beachside house and an evening at his club. Right at the end, House had left Wilson alone with the other man--Chris, Wilson now knew his name--for an hour or so, and Wilson knew he would remember that hour for a long time.

He decided not to bring it up unless House did. They were guys, after all.

At lunchtime, House pulled the car up to a sunny spot at the side of the road opposite a diner, and said abruptly, "I hope you got that kink out of your system, because we're never doing that again."

"Sure," Wilson mumbled.

House drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and failed to sound casual when he asked, "You going to see him again?"

"No." Wilson was surprised. It hadn't been that kind of encounter. And they were a long way from home, it would be completely impractical. But House was looking at him now, and Wilson felt the need to expand a little more. "He's obviously still completely in love with his ex. I think this was like... therapy for him."

House snorted. "Some therapy! Clearly you're going to be wasted as an oncologist, you should be fucking people for the good of their health instead."

"Ha ha." There was something Wilson wanted to ask House, but couldn't see how without sounding pathetic. He saw this was going to be the only possible chance to ask, so took a deep breath and asked anyway. "I was wondering if you were going to see the guy at the poker table again... the one you were flirting with and bumming cigarettes off of." The guy with the dark hair and winning smile.

"Dan?" House's eyebrows shot up and he looked at Wilson with an expression of incredulity. "Are you fucking kidding me? I barely spoke to him! While you got well and truly fucked by _Chris_ for two days--"

"All right, all right." Wilson held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. It was true: House had barely spoken to Dan, Wilson knew he was being silly. "I'm sorry. Look, let's get some food, okay?"

House nodded, and let it go, and they didn't talk any more about the events of the last two days. Looking back, Wilson decided it was good he'd asked about Dan anyway: he thought it gave House a little reassurance to find out that Wilson could be jealous too.

* * *

Late that afternoon Wilson was snoozing in the passenger seat when House swiped him awake. Wilson sat upright with a jerk, just in time to see a sign passing them by: WELCOME TO PRINCETON.

"We're in Princeton!" Wilson said in surprise. They'd stayed pretty much well away from large towns as far as possible since they'd left Boston.

"We're going to Princeton General Hospital," House announced.

This was their mysterious destination? "Why?"

"Because I've got a job interview there tomorrow morning."

Wilson slumped down in the seat, digesting this information and figuring out what it all meant. "You must've arranged this a week ago, right after you were fired."

"Yup. I gave a conference paper here last year and the head of Infectious Diseases said afterwards if I ever wanted a job he'd be happy to employ me. I called him last week."

Which would have taken some guts to do, Wilson knew. "So--why on earth have we been driving here ever since?"

"I wasn't sure if I wanted to go or not," House surprised Wilson with an apparently straight answer. "I needed... some time."

House didn't say anything more, but Wilson clicked intuitively into House's head and thought he understood. This last firing really had shaken House, more so than on previous occasions. He'd had doubts, wondered if he'd ever find a job anywhere he could get along with. He'd got himself an interview off the back of his reputation as a diagnostic whiz--but worried that when they met him at the interview, they would see only a man who had just been fired, would not take orders, would not compromise, and was generally impossible to work with.

So House had run away, and Wilson could only feel relief and gratitude that House had taken him with him along for the ride. And relief also that House hadn't pushed him too far, that Wilson hadn't insisted they go back; because if he had, he doubted House would have ever gotten here.

* * *

While House was at his interview the following day, Wilson wandered around town and thought it would be nice to work in Princeton. He was always happy to be back in Jersey. Bonnie would like it too. Wilson already had his next career move plotted out--he had squeezed a recommendation out of Vasilius Rusch for a prestigious double fellowship at UPenn--but he resolved to look into oncology departments in Princeton for after that.

House was offered a job on the spot, and to Wilson's relief, accepted. They celebrated that evening, and crashed at a motel. Next day House drove them back to Boston; it was much quicker on the freeways.

Wilson arrived home to find an empty house. No Bonnie, no Hector. It was obvious that Bonnie had decided to give him a taste of his own medicine; she'd gone away, no note, no phone message, with no indication of where she'd gone or for how long. Wilson deduced from her missing belongings that she hadn't actually left him--not yet, anyway--but she had taken enough clothes to last a week or so. He reflected ruefully that she wouldn't have done this a year ago; she would have been waiting tearfully at home for him, whatever he'd done, however long he'd gone away for. She was much more independent these days, knew more people, had more confidence in what she did.

Two days later Wilson swallowed his pride and started ringing her friends. He quickly found the girlfriend she was staying with, went around, apologized unreservedly, and eventually Bonnie deigned to come home. (He suspected she only caved when she did because Hector had chewed up her girlfriend's apartment).

But even though she forgave him at the time, looking back, Wilson realized that somehow their relationship never quite recovered from the road trip incident. It wasn't just that, but it was the catalyst. It had been demonstrated to Bonnie once and for all that when House wanted him, Wilson would be there. And she never quite trusted that it wouldn't happen again.

* * *

House found a nice apartment in Princeton, at 221B Baker Street which was an address that tickled them both, and Wilson risked Bonnie's wrath again to travel down and help House move in. It was the first apartment House had lived in that came totally unfurnished, and he had to buy lots of stuff, from kitchen equipment (most of which Wilson picked out) to a new bed with a comfortable mattress.

From the start, it was all too obvious to Wilson that House was lonely at Princeton General. He didn't know anyone, didn't make friends easily, found it tough carving out a role for himself at the hospital while trying not to get fired again. Wilson lived too far away to visit very often, and when he did, he found it tough to leave House alone at the end of a weekend.

After a few months, House seemed to relax a bit and find things easier: and unexpectedly, Wilson discovered the reason for that one day.

Wilson had just had good news: he'd gotten the fellowship at UPenn, would start there next semester. Bonnie was excited at the prospect of a move to Philadelphia (although not enthusiastic to realize that they would be much nearer to House in Princeton). Delighted at the news and keen to share it, Wilson called House: House sounded genuinely pleased too, and invited Wilson down. It was short notice, but Bonnie was actually busy most of that weekend with the dog-walking group, so Wilson agreed.

He managed to catch an earlier train and arrived at House's apartment much earlier than expected. House was still at work. Wilson let himself in, put the coffee machine on, discovered there was nothing in the fridge, started compiling a mental shopping list, and then noticed the light blinking on House's answering machine.

Thinking perhaps House had left a message for him, Wilson hit play. But an unfamiliar male voice began to speak instead.

_"Hey, House, it's Dan. Got your message, I just found it in time before I got in the car to come up. Sorry not to see you this weekend after all, it's been a month or so hasn't it, I was kind of looking forward to it, and you know what Roz is going to say... anyway." _There was a brief sigh. _"It's cool. Have fun with Wilson. Call me next week."  
_  
Wilson stood staring at the machine for several minutes, trying to comprehend what he'd just heard. _Dan._ It must be the same Dan they'd met at the club on the Jersey coast. So House had somehow stayed in touch with him after all--how the hell? Who on earth was this _Roz?_ And Dan knew about Wilson, of course: but why didn't Wilson know about Dan?

He heard a door slam: House arriving home. And in that split second, Wilson decided not to say anything. Because if seeing Dan was making life bearable for House at Princeton, then it was a Good Thing. Like Raquel had been a Good Thing. And although it tugged on Wilson's heartstrings that House had found some comfort with another guy rather than a girl this time, House had allowed Wilson to have that encounter with Chris, after all. Wilson would let House have this relationship with Dan. It didn't sound ultra-serious, to Wilson; certainly not a threat.

House need never know he'd heard that message: House's answering machine was sufficiently antiquated not to distinguish between new messages and old messages that nobody had deleted.

Wilson squared his shoulders and stepped away from the kitchen counter to greet House.

* * *

Wilson and Bonnie stayed together for another year. The relocation to UPenn initially seemed to go well, but Wilson became increasingly absorbed in his new job. Finally he was practicing oncology, he had worked towards this for so long, and now found it really was his vocation; he enjoyed it, he was good at it, found it rewarding in unexpected ways. He worked long hours, throwing himself into patient care, reading up on all the latest treatments.

Meanwhile Bonnie became ever more independent and growing in self-esteem, and the two of them correspondingly grew more and more distant. One day Wilson arrived home to find she had taken Hector and gone back to stay with her parents in Trenton. She took most of their possessions, and the divorce papers arrived soon afterwards. Wilson was sorry, and made an effort to be nice and stay in touch with her. He kept their apartment, although sometimes he wondered why he bothered, as it had so little in it.

It was strange being single again. There was House, of course, whose reaction to the divorce was a largely uninterested _thought you'd got divorced months ago, you might as well have done for all the difference it makes... _Wilson wasn't entirely sure what was up with House and Dan, but he didn't notice any more telephone messages or other signs House was in a relationship, and figured if something was going on, it wasn't very serious.

Mulling over what to do with the rest of his life, Wilson decided he'd do his utmost to get a job in Princeton himself in a couple of years time when his fellowship ended. Then maybe, just _maybe, _he and House could have a real relationship. An exclusive one, no wives or girlfriends or boyfriends on the sidelines. Perhaps they could even try living together. And if that worked out, perhaps they could even go public with it all one day... Wilson's mind boggled at that, and he stowed the thought for future consideration.

Unexpectedly though, while Wilson was still at UPenn, something else happened. House went to a Princeton paintball game. _Doctors versus Lawyers_.

END OF PART 13

TBC. Next part: who House met at the doctors versus lawyers paintball game.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 14  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** the ever supportive triedunture

**Summary:** House is in love and living with his new girlfriend; he and Wilson have to figure out what they can live with under the Stacy Convention.  
**Excerpt: **_As soon as they were seated, House yanked the collar of his jacket aside to reveal the lovebite, and said bluntly, "This can't happen again."  
_

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 14**

One rainy Monday evening Wilson was at home doing some paperwork when the phone rang, and he was surprised to see on the caller display that it was House. These days, with House working at Princeton General and Wilson at Penn, they usually emailed: once every few days, back and forth, emails which were mostly mocking and bordering on the abusive on the surface, the underlying affection well masked to anyone but themselves.

"Hey, House. What's up?"

"Wilson. About this weekend..." House sounded unusually unsure of himself.

"Is there a problem?" Wilson asked. Once every six weeks or so, when hospital schedules allowed, one of them would visit the other for a weekend. They would hang out, watch soaps, play computer games, and sleep in the same bed. He was supposed to go down to Princeton this weekend for the first time in quite a while. "Should I not come down?"

"No, no, come down, Jimmy." The use of his first name was like a flashing red light: Wilson immediately knew House had something major to tell him.

"What's up, House? Say it, quick; you're freaking me out."

House sighed. "I need to tell you... come down, but you'll be sleeping on the couch."

"Oh. Right." Wilson was puzzled.

"I'm living with someone."

Wilson dropped the pen he was holding. "You're living with someone?"

For once House didn't pounce on Wilson for repeating what he'd just heard, and carried on. "Her name's Stacy. She moved in with me a week ago."

Wilson was staggered. "And... how long have you been going out?"

"We met two weeks ago. At that doctors-lawyers paintball thing. I told you about it..."

"Not the bitch who shot you? You refused to die and shot her back, and you argued for hours..."

"That's her."

"And a week later she moved in?"

"Pretty much."

"House..." Wilson said slowly, thinking things through, "You can't possibly want me coming to stay this weekend if you've just started living with your new girlfriend. We'll take a raincheck."

"No." There was a deep breath at the other end of the phone. "Unless you don't _want_ to... sleep on the couch. I can understand that. But... I would like you to meet her."

Wilson didn't quite understand what was going on, but he responded to the words and the feeling behind them. "Of course. I'll sleep on the couch." He paused, and added with a hint of mischief, "Can't wait."

"Yeah." House sounded relieved. "See you Saturday."

* * *

A patient's relapse late on Friday delayed Wilson's arrival until Sunday, which he regretted, but at least he managed to arrange to take Monday off instead.

Wilson arrived at the train station in the afternoon, and saw House standing in his usual place leaning against the wall. They greeted each other in the same way as ever; that was to say, they started walking towards the parking lot and fell into step together with a gentle bump of shoulders. Wilson sometimes felt he lived for that bump of shoulders. Just as well, as he figured he wouldn't be getting anything else this weekend.

"So tell me about her," he said, once they were in the car, and heading for House's apartment.

"She's a lawyer. High-powered. Works all hours of the day and night. Earns far more than me. Or you." House swerved to avoid a pedestrian. "You'll think she's a good influence on me."

"Mmm." Wilson was reserving all judgment at the moment.

"Her firm does quite a bit of work for Princeton General, and also for the teaching hospital down the road. She's working this afternoon--gotta big case on tomorrow--but we're all meeting for dinner later. If that's okay?" He turned his head to look at Wilson, blue eyes wide and questioning.

Wilson was surprised; House was not one to ask if arrangements were all right; he was apt to decide what they were going to do and Wilson found out later on, if he was lucky. He deduced that House was nervous. He wasn't showing it, but he was nervous. Because he really wanted Wilson to get along with Stacy.

"Sure," Wilson said easily.

* * *

Stacy was waiting at the restaurant that evening when they arrived. Wilson already knew what she would be like, like every girlfriend of House's that he'd ever met--tall, dark hair, intelligent, self-possessed. She was dressed casually yet smartly, appropriate for a weekend spent in the office. House and Wilson looked like mangy teenagers by comparison, even though House was wearing a shirt instead of a T-shirt for once.

"Wilson, Stacy. Stacy, James Wilson." House was outwardly confident, but talking too quickly and moving jerkily; he was definitely nervous.

"I'm delighted to meet you, James." Stacy's handshake was firm and her voice was steady.

"And I'm really pleased to meet you too." The words were a little formal, but Wilson meant it; actually he was agog to meet her, to find out more about this woman who had moved in with House. Nobody had managed that before.

They sat down, and Wilson saw Stacy had a briefcase and a small wheeled suitcase behind the table. She caught his gaze. "I have to apologize, I need to leave right after dinner--I have a case first thing tomorrow in Washington, so I need to fly out tonight. I'll be away for a few days. I'm very sorry to go just as you got here."

"No problem." Wilson responded to her politeness in kind. "I have to get back tomorrow myself, I'm just sorry you have to fly out to work on a Sunday night."

House snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. "Let's get some food over here, _pronto! Garçon!"  
_  
"No need to terrorize the waiting staff, Greg," Stacy said mildly. "I don't want them spitting in our food."

"If they do, I'll diagnose food poisoning and you can bring the lawsuit," House said, leaning over to the next table to grab a menu from another customer. They had barely finished ordering, and looked at him with indignation.

Stacy shook her head, and raised a beautifully groomed eyebrow. "They'd claim extreme provocation. And they'd be right..."

Wilson watched in fascination as House and Stacy batted back and forth, House throwing casual insults and irreverent remarks in his usual way, and Stacy lobbing them right back. A small part of Wilson wanted to dislike her. It wasn't rational; it was simply because House had despised Wilson's own ex-wives and every girlfriend he had ever had, pretty much, and he wanted to return the favor.

But Wilson didn't dislike her; he couldn't. She was smart and funny and warm and nice, and above all, she _got _House. And House clearly adored her. He wasn't soppy, and neither was she; they didn't call each other any pet names, or hold hands. Actually, they barely touched in front of him, which Wilson was vaguely relieved about. But Wilson could see it every time House looked at her; that blue gaze he knew so well. Intense, intimate, meaningful, delighted as if he couldn't believe his luck; House was nuts about her.

Wilson was a little surprised to find that Stacy was obviously curious about him. Somehow he hadn't appreciated that Stacy would want to know more about House's best (and only) friend, but of course she did.

"So how did you guys meet?" she asked, over starters.

House rolled his eyes and plucked a shrimp out of her prawn avocado.

Good question, Wilson thought wryly. "He knocked me over with his motorbike." (Even more interesting than being shot at paintball, he hoped.) "Although he'd already been stealing my food a week before that."

She smiled. "And that was at Columbia, right?"

"Nine years ago." Wilson nodded.

"You've obviously got staying power," she said.

She asked him about himself, his job, his family, his wives, his divorces. Wilson answered truthfully but circumspectly; there were many things it was important to omit. He found himself uneasy; however ridiculous it might be, it was the first time he had really been faced with the prospect of sharing House with anyone else.

Near the end of the meal, House vanished into the bathroom and Wilson seized the opportunity to have a private word with Stacy.

"Look," he said abruptly, digging a spoon into his ice-cream. "House doesn't let many people close to him." As he spoke, Wilson tried to think of anyone close to House apart from himself, and failed. "Actually he almost _never _lets anyone close to him. So... I don't know if you realize, but this is a huge thing for him. So you'd better be serious about him. Because if you're not, you'd better back off right now before you really hurt him."

"Wow." Stacy regarded him coolly. "You know what this reminds me of? Me aged sixteen, my first boyfriend, my dad collaring him and telling him he had better treat his daughter right or else."

Wilson grimaced. "I am _not _House's dad! As you'd know, if you'd ever met House's dad." Stacy looked curious at this, and Wilson hastily swerved away from the subject of House's parents. "But... if you're just playing with him, I'm not gonna just sit here and watch."

"I'm not just playing," Stacy said steadily.

"Because with House it's all or nothing." Wilson pressed on. "He doesn't do compromises."

"He's a big boy," Stacy protested. "Surely you don't need to be so protective."

Wilson wasn't feeling _protective_ so much as _possessive_ right now, and he wasn't about to apologize for it. "And whatever you do, don't think you can change him. Because however close you get, however near he lets you, he's still gonna behave like an ass. That's just how he is. You may think that's cute now, and you can cope, but you may not feel that way after a while."

"James. Quit worrying," Stacy said firmly. "I'm not going to hurt him."

Wilson looked at her, hard. She regarded him calmly back, and after a few seconds he shrugged and took a mouthful of ice-cream. "Fine. I've had my two cents. He's obviously crazy about you. I hope it works out. I really do."

"Thank you." Stacy smiled a little. "And I consider myself warned."

"Not warned, no!" Wilson mentally kicked himself: hell, he really did sound like a concerned parent.

House reappeared at that moment, eyes sharp with curiosity. "So, you two having a good chat?"

It was a casually phrased question but Wilson knew it wasn't casual at all. He chose to be reassuring, and replied, "I think we're getting along just fine."

As they were finishing dessert, a waiter told Stacy that her cab had arrived: she apologized nicely to Wilson again, and left. House walked her out to the cab: Wilson watched them leave the restaurant, House's hand resting on the small of her back.

House and Stacy stopped outside on the sidewalk, the cab with its meter running a few feet away. Wilson shifted his seat a few inches for a better view. He saw them embracing briefly, kissing swiftly, then pausing to exchange a few last words. Stacy with a hand on House's arm, House snaking an arm around her waist.

Coffee arrived. Wilson took a sip too quickly and burned his mouth. He gulped some water, and reflected on how _fucking unfair _it was that House had fallen in love--and that was what had happened, Wilson had no doubt--right _now_. Just a month ago he'd been thinking about how he and House might live together, if he could get a job in Princeton... and now someone else had moved in instead. Literally.

Fine, Wilson could cope with that. But he wasn't going to let himself be sidelined.

Stacy got in the cab, and as House waved her off, Wilson sat up a little straighter in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, and prepared to stake his claim.

House returned to the table, bright eyed but worried, keen to find out what Wilson thought of her. Wilson intimated both approval and doubts, and fed House half his chocolate while flirting shamelessly. When Wilson _really_ wanted House, he knew how to play House, and with House unsure of himself and nervy, it wasn't difficult; they ended up fucking in the alleyway outside the restaurant.

* * *

Next morning, House emerged from his bedroom with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, came into the kitchen and asked with a nonchalance that didn't fool Wilson for one second, "So, were you okay sleeping on the couch last night?"

They'd stumbled back to House's apartment after their coupling in the alley, and Wilson hadn't hesitated to crash on the couch. He'd seen inside the bedroom earlier, and it was no longer House's bedroom; it was House-and-Stacy's. There were strange possessions in the closet and women's clothes draped over chairs. It was similar elsewhere, with a whole new range of products in the bathroom cabinet, and weighty law books propped up against the equally hefty medical tomes on the living room shelves.

"It was fine," Wilson said immediately, and added a trifle mischievously, "Though if this goes on, maybe you should both get a bigger apartment with a spare room." He knew House was deeply entrenched in his apartment, especially since he'd managed to afford to buy a grand piano at last, and wouldn't leave it unless carried out in a wooden box.

"Yeah, right." House turned to pour himself some coffee, and Wilson glimpsed a large red hickey on House's neck beneath the bathrobe. A sharp reminder of the night before. He'd bitten House on the neck, twice: he knew he shouldn't have done it, but at the time it had seemed necessary.

"She's really nice," Wilson said, trying to show approval of House's new relationship.

"What time's your train?" House asked abruptly.

Wilson hesitated, not sure where this was going. "There's one about noon..."

"I don't have to be in work until the afternoon, late shift. I'll come to the station with you," House said.

Wilson realized House wanted to say something, and yet didn't want to say it, so was putting it off until the last minute.

"Sure," Wilson said, not wanting to push.

* * *

They went to a coffee shop at the station, and House found them a table in a far corner which was quiet and almost dark, even in the middle of the day.

As soon as they were seated, House yanked the collar of his jacket aside to reveal one of the lovebites, and said bluntly, "This can't happen again."

Wilson raised a hand in apology. "I'm sorry. They'll fade before she's back."

"That's not what I mean." House didn't look at Wilson as he went on, "I'm not like you when it comes to... compartmentalizing relationships. It's gonna be... different from now on. Us, I mean."

"You mean..." Wilson dropped his voice. "You don't want to--" he made a gesture--"with me any more."

"Not that I don't _want _to, Christ, Wilson," House hissed. "I'm saying I'm trying to make a commitment here, to Stacy, and that means not jumping my best friend every time we meet. And I can't do that if you... keep pursuing it."

Wilson knew that House was naturally inclined to be much more monogamous than himself, even if House couldn't always live up to his own ambitions. He remembered House's insistence that they should stop fucking after Wilson had gotten married that first time; he remembered his own determined pursuit of House in the face of it...

Now, Wilson wasn't quite sure how to react. He knew he was jealous of Stacy on one level, but he also wanted to rise above that. He did not want to break up House and Stacy's relationship; did not want that responsibility; didn't think anything good would come of it even if he did. He did not want to make House upset, or angry; he wanted House to be happy and content and working well. It looked like House was finally in a place where he could be happy, and Wilson couldn't help but be genuinely pleased for House.

"If that's what you need me to do, House," he said gently, "I can... keep on sleeping on the couch. So long as you still want me to visit."

As he spoke, Wilson was aware of a stabbing sensation in his chest, as if he was falling on his sword.

"Of _course-_-" House broke off, and reached out and grabbed Wilson's hand.

They were in public, and although there was nobody around to see, Wilson was momentarily shocked. House held Wilson's hand tightly, apparently in the grip of strong emotion. Wilson squeezed back, trying to be reassuring. Then he loosened his grip, and instead interlaced their fingers together.

House looked down at their hands, intimately joined. Then House unlaced their fingers, and instead put the tip of just one finger, his middle finger, very gently on the center of Wilson's palm. Wilson felt an electric charge shooting through his body, sending a shiver down his spine and a pulse to his groin. He put out his own middle finger and placed it on House's palm, and watched as House's blue eyes sparked and shone in response.

A crackling voice on the intercom announced the platform for Wilson's train. Wordlessly, they both got up and trudged out.

* * *

The next couple of times they met, Stacy was present, and House was bouncing around her with adoration apparent in every movement, affection tempering every otherwise caustic remark. In these circumstances it wasn't difficult for Wilson to be just the best friend. He got to know Stacy a little better; he couldn't help but like her.

The first real test of his new-style relationship with House came about six months later. House emailed to say that he was coming to give a seminar at UPenn's Infectious Diseases department on diagnostic techniques, and would be crashing at Wilson's apartment. Wilson, anxious to try and play by House's new rules, replied _sure, my couch awaits_.

Wilson went along to the seminar, curious to see House holding forth in his area of expertise. He sat at the back and listened and watched, as House spoke to a paper and effortlessly quashed questions. Wilson was duly impressed by House's authority and command of his subject. House had always known his stuff; but choosing to communicate it like this to his peers--this was new. And Wilson knew what the difference was: it was Stacy. House had been right: she _was_ a good influence. Her own strong work ethic had rubbed off on House.

"That was great, House," Wilson was quick to compliment afterwards. They were in a nearby bar along with a number of his Infectious Diseases colleagues. "You should put it in a paper, get it published."

"Already submitted, to the New England Medical Journal," House said briskly.

"Damn skippy." Wilson really was impressed.

They had a few beers, the Infectious Diseases staff melted away, and by closing time House and Wilson were alone together, exchanging drunken gossip and berating the nature of events currently going on in _General Hospital_.

They staggered home. At one point House tripped over the curb and nearly fell, except Wilson grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. Back at Wilson's apartment, Wilson opened the door and stepped inside. House followed and went past him into the hallway. Wilson shut the door, turned around, and was caught completely by surprise as House pushed him gently back against the wall and pressed his lips over Wilson's mouth.

Wilson responded instinctively, throwing his arms round House, pulling him closer. House pressed his whole body up against Wilson's; Wilson felt the throb of House's groin, and House shuddered from top to bottom.

God it would have been so easy just to keep goin... to put his hand up under House's T-shirt, to slide his other hand down to unbutton House's jeans... to fuck or be fucked right here, in the hallway, up against the wall. And part of Wilson felt triumphant about this, in a _Hah, Stacy!_ kind of way. _He might be in love with you but he always comes back to me..._

But Wilson, with an enormous effort, pulled back and said breathlessly, "Hang on, House? I must've misunderstood big-time here, because I thought we weren't doing this anymore."

House looked at him with eyes so fogged with lust that Wilson twitched and bit his tongue before carrying on nervously, "Because of Stacy?..."

The name stopped House dead. He stepped back and breathed, then turned away and walked off into Wilson's living room.

Wilson took a moment to compose himself, then went in and sat down on the couch next to House.

"Thanks for being the strong one here," House mumbled. "Though I never would have believed it. Jimmy Wilson, who'd have thought it?"

"You're gonna have to stop teasing me," Wilson said, trying to sound casual and not as if he was inwardly kicking himself. "Next time I may not find such self-control. Look, I'm going to bed, I'll see you in the morning."

House frowned, and said bluntly, "You're going to jerk off now, aren't you?"

Wilson was taken aback, but retained the presence of mind to hit right back. "And you're not?"

"It makes no sense at all for us to sit here in your apartment jerking off in separate rooms," House stated. "C'mere."

"House, these are supposed to be your rules--" Wilson began, then breathed in sharply as House moved closer, then reached out and unbuckled Wilson's jeans. Wilson promptly lost all power to protest, as House put his hand inside and slowly, deliberately, grasped his cock and began to roll his hand up and down.

Wilson reached out towards House's crotch, but House swiped Wilson's hand away and undid his own jeans. "Nuh huh. You watch."

"Umph." Wilson clutched the back of the couch instead and watched, spellbound, as House pulled out his own cock, then inched closer and then enveloped both their erections together in one strong palm. Wilson instinctively reached down to cover House's hand with his own--but again, House swiped him away.

"Nuh-huh."

"House, God, House--" Wilson groped out blindly, higher-up this time, and found himself grabbing at House's hair. House let out a _sss!_ of pain as Wilson yanked out several follicles, then Wilson came, spurting madly over House's fist and House's own cock. House briefly paused, then slathered Wilson's come over his palm and continued to pump at his own hard-on. A minute later House groaned and climaxed himself.

When he had regained the power of speech, Wilson ventured through stuttered breaths, "So, is this allowed under the Stacy Convention?"

"Fuck off!" House mumbled, sounding weak but indignant. Then he added, a trifled defensive, "I'm still figuring out what I can live with."

"You'd be surprised," Wilson muttered back.

* * *

It took about six months before House established some ground rules which he could live with. It had to be infrequent (not too difficult, as Stacy was usually around), and it had to stop short of full penetrative sex. But most importantly it had to be unplanned; House just wouldn't tolerate it if he felt Wilson had set up an opportunity for them to fuck. But if it seemed impulsive, the two of them both slightly drunk perhaps, and being mutually flirty and affectionate, and this somehow ended up with a spur-of-the-moment blowjob, or a furtive handjob--then that could be tolerated.

Wilson found he could live with this too. His nickname for their arrangement stuck, which annoyed House but amused Wilson no end. At crucial moments Wilson would ask, "Is this okay under the Stacy Convention?" or "Can we lift the Stacy Convention for a moment here?" and House would bark at him _don't fucking say that_!--but it had the benefit that they both knew exactly what they were talking about.

And Wilson found a great deal of satisfaction in manufacturing the odd apparently spontaneous sexual encounter--and if House sometimes suspected it hadn't been quite as spontaneous as it initially seemed, Wilson usually had done a good enough job that House didn't quibble. In fact, Wilson looked back on sex during the Stacy Convention years as some of the most satisfying they ever had.

END OF PART 14

* * *

TBC. Next part: Wilson applies for a job at Princeton Plainsboro, under the new young female kickass Dean of Medicine.

A/N: The alley!sex outside the restaurant is told in my separate fic Branding.


	15. Chapter 15

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 15  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta**: the always brilliant triedunture

**Summary:** Wilson gets a job at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. House helps, kind of.  
**Excerpt: **"_Also," House said off-handedly, "I don't know if it'll help, but I do know the new Dean of Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro."_

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 15  
**  
Wilson read the letter twice, did a celebratory air punch, then picked up the phone and called House.

"Hello?" a female voice answered.

"Hey, Stacy," Wilson greeted her. "I got an interview for the job at Princeton Plainsboro!"

"Congratulations!" Stacy's voice was warm. "I'll tell Greg. He's not here right now, he's got a suspected case of meningitis. His patient, that is, not him."

"That's okay, just tell him, interview is Thursday next week, and there's a drinks reception for candidates to meet oncology staff the night before." Wilson was already mentally booking half a week off work. "I hope you don't mind if I stay at your apartment a couple of days, crash on your couch? It would be really good not to have to travel back and forth from Penn."

"Of course, that's fine. I might not be there, I have to go to Baltimore some time next week for work, but Greg will be happy to have you."

"Thank-you." A thought struck Wilson. "Hey, how did that conference of his go last week?... He was presenting a paper, he said it went okay but he was very casual about it."

"It went _very_ well." Stacy's voice rose in emphasis. "The conference organizer edits a medical journal, he went straight up to Greg afterwards and said he wanted to publish it."

"That's really good to hear. And wow, that'll be the third paper he'll have had published this year!" Wilson marveled, and added, "You've made such a difference, you know... he always had to be pushed really hard to do conferences and publish papers."

"Oh, hey," Stacy said modestly, but Wilson knew it was true. Having Stacy around, working very hard herself, and pushing House not to be lazy, had brought about a real difference in House's workrate. He was now building a reputation as a diagnostician, having published a series of landmark papers and given some legendary conference papers. Wilson regarded this activity as an essential bulwark against House's bosses at Princeton General, who were always threatening to fire him.

"Anyway, Greg says you're completing your fellowship to plaudits all around," Stacy added.

"Oh, hey." It was Wilson's turn to demur, but he was pleased. He was coming to the end of his fellowship at Penn and although his boss had told him he'd be happy to stay on as an attending, Wilson had been on the lookout for a job in Princeton for some time now.

And now there was a vacancy at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's oncology department. It was particularly attractive, not only because it was just down the road from House and Stacy, but also because it had good potential prospects. Dr. Collins, the Head of Oncology, was due to retire in a few years' time. Doubtless there would be a raft of current senior oncology staff with their eye on the top job; what it meant for Wilson was consequent vacancies, if everybody shuffled up the ladder one place.

He really wanted this job.

* * *

Wilson arrived in Princeton the day before the interview to find Stacy was indeed away in Baltimore, and House bouncing around their apartment, eager to pass on gossip on the Princeton oncology scene. House had been chatting with oncology colleagues at Princeton General.

"The head of oncology at Plainsboro, Dr. Collins, is an old soak just marking time before he retires," House reported. "Humor him and try not to faint at his whiskey breath. His second in command is Dr. Brown. Brown doesn't suffer fools gladly, lives for research, hates admin but has ended up on the management board there somehow so he'll be interviewing you too, for sure."

"I've met them both." Wilson had been deliberately networking Princeton oncologists at conferences and seminars for a while now. "I definitely created a good impression with Collins... not sure about Brown."

"And the departmental secretary is the one who actually runs the place, her name's Nora," House recited. "See if you can meet her at the party tonight."

"Will do."

"Also," House said off-handedly, "I don't know if it'll help, but I do know the new Dean of Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro."

Wilson consulted his interview letter; the name was in the letterhead. "Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"

"That's her. We were at Michigan together." House's tone could not have been more casual. "Haven't seen her since, though. I heard she became an endocrinologist, but she always had a hard-on for admin."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Michigan? When you were a med student? Then she must be very young to be a Dean of Medicine."

"Yeah. She's younger than me, though a bit older than you, I think." House paused, then went on, "Word on the street is that Princeton Plainsboro nearly lost its certification last year and Lisa Cuddy was brought in as the new broom to kick some ass and turn things around. She's purging the old guard, bringing in new blood."

"Right." This was promising. Wilson would be new blood.

"So it wouldn't surprise me if she wanted to sit on the board interviewing prospective new oncology attendings," House added.

Wilson nodded solemnly, and wondered if he would ever dare namedrop House in a job interview. He considered what House had said: _we were at Michigan together_. House's Michigan days were a closed book to Wilson.

"When you say _know _her... you... got along?"

House shrugged, and looked innocent.

Wilson could have called House on an outright lie, but an evasive House--and especially a vaguely humorous and evasive House--was much more difficult. "I mean, should I try and mention you, or should I not mention you at all costs?"

"Let's just say she should remember me," House said, with a revoltingly lewd wink.

Wilson resolved not to mention House if he could possibly help it.

* * *

Wilson was at his best at the cocktail party that evening. He made sure to talk to Dr. Collins first, greeting him jovially, reminding him that they had met at a conference at Sloan-Kettering a few months ago. Collins was affable in return, and Wilson couldn't help but notice that there was indeed whiskey on Collins' breath despite the fact that the only drinks on offer were wine and orange juice.

Wilson managed to find Brown next, asked about a recent paper Brown had published, indicated that he had liked and respected the paper without being too obvious about it; asked a couple of intelligent questions and generally tried to come across as competent, yet not a threat. Brown seemed pleased, so Wilson was pleased too.

To everyone else in the room, Wilson just tried to be nice. He knew that the interviewers would merely ascertain from the other oncology staff--doctors, nurses, secretaries--that they would be happy to work with any of the candidates. Wilson was good at being nice and knew they would all say yes, sure, they would be very happy to work with Dr. Wilson if he was appointed.

"So I hear you recently got a new Dean of Medicine," Wilson said conversationally to a grumpy-looking elderly nurse. He tried not to stare at the nicotine stains on her teeth and fingertips.

He was rewarded with a scowl, and the nurse replied, "Yes, Dr. Cuddy."

"I hear she's...young?" Wilson ventured.

"Young enough to be my daughter," the nurse said. "Although she wouldn't dare dress like _that _if she were my daughter, I can tell you."

Wilson, intrigued, gathered that the nurse did not approve of Dr. Cuddy.

He went to refill his glass, and asked the administrator who had been given the job of serving the drinks if she was Nora, the departmental secretary. He was told _no,_ with a laugh; with the rest of them at the party, someone had to stay behind to keep the department running.

* * *

The event had been going on a while, and Wilson was wondering how much longer it would be politic to stay, when the door opened and in stepped a woman with big hair and a big chest. She was wearing a power suit with a short skirt and a tight fitting blouse, and a lofty pair of red heels.

Wilson dragged his eyes up her legs to her face and remembered what the nurse had said. This must be Dr. Lisa Cuddy.

She was late, and judging from the way she was looking at her watch, she wouldn't be staying long. He started to edge across the room towards her, observing a couple of the other candidates trying to do the same.

She picked up a glass of wine, and he heard her say to the woman serving the drinks, "--five minutes. I'll see them all at interview tomorrow anyway."

He increased his stride and as she turned away from the table, he was right in front of her stretching out his hand. "I'm James Wilson. It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Cuddy."

She shook his hand, a firm shake, and looked up and down at him. "Dr. Wilson. McGill, Columbia, Mass Gen, and now Penn. Quite a résumé you have."

She had read the pile of applications; she'd remembered the details; she knew her stuff. Wilson was impressed, and knew immediately it was worth trying to impress her. They talked for a minute or two about his current fellowship. It went well--he made a joke at one point and she laughed--but Wilson felt he needed to make more of an impact.

She looked again at her watch and he knew she was about to move on. He decided swiftly that it was all or nothing; he had to play the House card.

He stepped back a little, so as not to give the impression he was trying to buttonhole her, and said casually, "Oh by the way, I think we have a mutual acquaintance." (He shied away from saying _friend _at the last minute. He was proud to be House's friend but he wasn't at all sure that Cuddy had been). "Dr. Gregory House."

Cuddy looked at him, startled, and raised her eyebrows. _"House?" _

For a few dreadful seconds, Wilson thought House had sold him out. _House, you bastard you slept with her and never called her, or stole her car or plagiarized her work or played loud music through her wall or just insulted her once and she's never forgotten... _

But then she smiled, a genuine smile showing off perfect large white teeth, and said, "Now that's a name I haven't heard in years. How is he? What's he up to these days? "

"He's fine. Actually he's working just down the road from here, at Princeton General."

"Really! I had no idea. Of course I've only been in Princeton myself for a few months. How interesting."

"You were--friends--at Michigan together, I believe?" Wilson ventured, feeling bold.

"We were at Michigan, yes." Cuddy's brow furrowed for a few seconds as she remembered. She sipped her wine and glanced down at the floor. "As for friends--well if you know House, you know he doesn't really do friends."

_Except me_, Wilson thought a little smugly, but it didn't seem quite the right moment to say it.

"And how do you know House?" Cuddy asked. "Don't tell me he ended up in oncology. I can't imagine anything less suitable for him."

Wilson noticed that Cuddy called him _House_ and not Greg and wondered if this was significant. Girlfriends called him Greg. House's parents called him Greg. Everyone else called him House. Maybe it was just the doctor thing.

"No, no, I met him back at Columbia, he was in Nephrology then. He switched to Infectious Diseases a few years ago, and he's an attending in Infectious Diseases at Princeton General now."

"That sounds much more House's kind of thing," Cuddy said, nodding. "Plenty of scope for diagnosing weird and wonderful medical conditions from all over."

"I'm staying with him and his girlfriend for a couple of days while I'm here in Princeton for interview," Wilson said conversationally.

Cuddy's eyebrows raised again at the word _girlfriend_. "House lives with a girlfriend?"

"Her name's Stacy, she's a lawyer, does some work for Princeton General and for this hospital too, I think."

"Stacy the lawyer... we have a few lawyers on staff here... but I do know the name. Stacy. Short dark hair, right?" Wilson nodded, and Cuddy beamed. "House's girlfriend, well, who'd have thought it! I'll have to have a chat with her sometime." She smiled again, and put her half-empty wineglass down on a nearby table. "Dr. Wilson, I really have to go now. It's been a pleasure talking to you and I'll see you tomorrow."

She started to walk away and paused, looking back. "Tell House I said hi, and get him to come see me sometime."

She headed out of the door. She hadn't talked to a single other candidate.

Leaving the hospital a short while later, Wilson reflected that the evening had gone well beyond his wildest hopes. And curiously, he had House to thank for it.

* * *

The interview the next morning was a breeze. Nobody said a word about any conversations the previous evening, but Wilson had already done the hard work there and was now reaping the rewards. Dr. Collins already knew Wilson would do, Brown knew that Wilson was competent, and Cuddy had a reason to know who Wilson was.

But that didn't mean to say that Wilson felt complacent. There were a lot of other good candidates: he'd met them. He went back to House's apartment afterwards, fretting slightly. House was at work.

In the afternoon, the call came on his cell. It was Cuddy. "Dr. Wilson, congratulations. You got the job."

Wilson breathed a huge sigh of relief and swiftly felt exuberant. "Thank-you, that's great!"

"My assistant is typing out your appointment letter right now," Cuddy went on. "It'll be in the mail tonight. Unless you're still in Princeton, in which case you can drop by and pick it up, if you want. Didn't you say you were here for a few days?"

"Yes, I'm here until tomorrow, I'll drop by this afternoon," Wilson said.

"Give us a couple of hours to sort out the paperwork," Cuddy said, and hung up.

Wilson speed dialed no.1 on his phone. For the first time ever, House answered immediately. "Wilson?"

"I got it!"

Wilson heard a sigh at the other end, followed by a gruff voice that Wilson recognized as House's version of _pleased and proud_. "Of course you did."

"The drinks are on me tonight. I'll get the beers in."

"Actually, I think I might be on my way home right now--got a bit of a cold coming on--" House sneezed a spectacularly fake sneeze. "No point spreading it among patients here, right?"

"You don't have to skive. I've got to stop by Princeton Plainsboro and pick up my appointment letter in a couple of hours, we can start drinking after that."

House's voice picked up several semitones. "You're going to Plainsboro? I'll drive you. Wait, I'll come by and pick you up."

"I can walk, it's not far," Wilson protested. "You don't have to."

"No," said House. "But Cuddy said I should pop in and see her sometime, right?"

* * *

House and Wilson walked into Princeton Plainsboro and looked around the lobby. Nurses bustled around, doctors in white coats strode past, and patients queued for the clinic.

"Ever been here before?" Wilson asked House.

"Yes, to pick up Stacy, maybe once or twice. I have a feeling I'll get to know it a lot better in future," House answered thoughtfully.

Wilson got directions to Cuddy's office, and found her assistant, who gave him his appointment letter and said, "If you can wait a few more minutes, Dr. Wilson, I'll have all the other forms you'll need to fill in."

"Sure," said Wilson.

House, standing behind him, suddenly said, "There she is!" and walked across the assistant's office towards a door. The door had a glass panel, and Cuddy was visible at her desk in the next room.

"You can't just--" the assistant began, but too late, as House opened the door without knocking and walked right in. Wilson hesitated for a second, then curiosity got the better of him and he followed House in. Cuddy didn't look mad. And he had his appointment letter right there in his hand.

"Lisa Cuddy!" House strode across the room.

"Well, if it isn't Greg House! Long time no see!" Cuddy came out from behind her desk and met him half way. They shook hands, Wilson observed. House was not a great hand-shaker, but Cuddy obviously knew his even greater aversion to air hugs and cheek kisses. "And Dr. Wilson, good to see you," she acknowledged him, and looked back at House. "Still not shaving, I see," she added.

"I see the twins are as bonny and bouncing as ever," House countered.

Wilson was really confused by this for a second, looking around the room for a stroller, before realizing from the direction of his gaze that House was talking about Cuddy's _breasts._ If Cuddy hadn't not so much as blinked an eyelid, Wilson would have died of embarrassment on the spot.

"You haven't changed a bit," she laughed.

"So I gather congratulations are in order," said House smoothly. "For having the good sense and taste to appoint my best buddy Wilson to your staff, of course. Oh, and also for becoming the second youngest ever female Dean of Medicine. Nice office you've got here. How's the job going?"

"It's everything you hate," Cuddy said dryly. "Lots of paperwork, endless admin, caution in the face of ethical dilemmas, and lots of schmoozing of donors."

"Ah, well you'll have an ally in Wilson here, he's very good at schmoozing."

"So I saw at the party last night," said Cuddy, and Wilson felt faintly embarrassed. "And you, House? You're working at Princeton General? In fact, I'm sure you have a really good reason for not being there right now."

House gave a theatrical sneeze. "Cold coming on, had to leave early."

"Yeah, right." Cuddy might not have seen House for years but she clearly had the measure of him. "I pity your Dean of Medicine, I really do. Don't you have a girlfriend to keep you in order these days?"

"Stacy tries her best," House said indulgently. "But she's a busy person, doing the high-powered lawyer thing and all."

"Ah yes, and did I hear she does some work here for us? I will be looking her up very shortly." Cuddy beamed. House looked vaguely apprehensive. "Now much as I'd love to stand here and chat all day, I really must get going. We must do lunch sometime."

* * *

"You were totally flirting with her," Wilson said to House as they headed back to the car across the parking lot.

"Was not!"

"You so were! You jumped at the chance to see her. And she obviously only asked me to come over in the hope you'd come with me." Wilson was sure of this. "What happened at Michigan? You must've dated."

House shrugged a little. "If you say so."

Wilson didn't believe it, but could see House was not about to cave. 'I shall just have to wait until you're really drunk this evening and ask you again."

* * *

Wilson never did get around to asking House about Michigan that evening, as they were both in a celebratory mood and they lifted the Stacy Convention for the first time in a long while.

They had a take-out of burgers and fries, and managed to finish two six-packs of beer between them, with a few whiskey chasers interleaved. They ended up sitting on the floor in the living room, sprawled on the rug, pawing clumsily at each other and exchanging occasional sloppy, beery kisses. Periodically House tried to haul himself back onto the couch, only to slither down the cushions again. Wilson found it hysterically funny each time he tried.

Then House fell off the cushions again and half on top of Wilson this time, and instead of pushing him away, Wilson reached out to wrap an arm around House. House moved sideways so their faces came together, and next thing they were necking and tugging off each others clothes as if the end of the world was nigh.

Hell, it had been months since they'd been half-naked and close like this, gasping and panting and wriggling up against each other. Wilson placed a palm flat against House's chest, taking great pleasure simply in touching House's bare skin, while House chewed at Wilson's lips a little and nibbled Wilson's left ear.

House propped himself up on an elbow and turned over, pressing his back up against Wilson's chest, his ass up against Wilson's groin. Wilson put a hand on House's hip, admiring the line of House's body, the strong thighs and arching back. He rubbed his crotch against House's tailbone, then reached around to run a hand lightly over House's cock. House's body bucked as if he had almost come there and then.

"House," Wilson breathed into House's ear, and hoped House was sufficiently drunk that he couldn't remember the rules. "Lemme ass fuck you."

"No." House apparently wasn't quite that far gone. They hadn't had penetrative sex since before Stacy had come on the scene, a year ago now. "You can jerk off while humping me."

"No. _Please."_ Wilson was sure he had never wanted anything quite so much in his life: wanted to be thrusting into House's body, hot and sweating right underneath him. "Special occasion. New job. Never again. Please." He circled House's cock in his hand, then ran the tip of his thumb right over the head. House let out a high-pitched whine, followed by a cough.

"Beg all you want. I'm not going to-_-fucking hell, Wilson!--"_

Wilson had reached up to dunk a finger in a blob of ketchup on a plate on the coffee table, and then stuck it right up House's ass. House moaned and writhed and clenched under Wilson's hand, and Wilson felt a degree of smugness even through a layer of alcoholic fog.

"More?" he whispered into House's ear: one finger still up House's ass, the other hand closed around House's cock.

"You _bastard--"_

Wilson added a second finger and House squealed this time. Wilson eased his fingers in and out, feeling House shuddering, then relaxing, then tensing. It was immensely satisfying: House had obviously missed _this_.

"You're--a--bastard," House repeated between stifled moans. "You'd better have a fucking condom."

Victory. "You don't keep them here any more?" Wilson groped for his wallet with one hand, keeping the other up House's ass.

"No. Other ways of--_Jesus, _Wilson--" House squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds.

Wilson reluctantly use both hands to snap the condom on deftly, and added a touch more ketchup just in case. He hoped there weren't any health hazards from ketchup; maybe House still had lube in a drawer somewhere, but Wilson wasn't about to stop now to go find out. He guided House onto all fours, mounted House carefully, then eased inside slowly.

It was tight, much tighter than it had been, but of course it had been far too fucking long since they'd done this, and clearly House wasn't being ass-fucked by anyone else in the meantime. Practically a virgin ass again, Wilson thought, and the idea sent his blood pumping and made his hard-on swell mightily as he thrust. House gasped and Wilson knew that was from pain this time. Damn it, he didn't want to hurt House, but God this was just so _good_--he tried to ease back a little, and murmured nonsensical nothings into House's ear.

House relaxed again, and Wilson clutched at House's shoulders and thrust, further in this time, and _so fucking tight,_ with House's back arched up against his chest and the back of House's head nuzzled against his face--Wilson came with a sharp cry of _God, House!, _and a rush of exhilaration.

Momentarily devoid of all strength, he rested his weight on House's back. Then he pulled out, trying to be gentle, but House hissed through his teeth and Wilson knew it had been painful for him. Seeking to make amends, Wilson pushed House onto his side and shifted downwards to take House's cock in his mouth.

"Fuck, yes." House clutched at Wilson's head, pulling at Wilson's hair. House was still hard and throbbing, and it didn't take much encouragement for him to spurt into Wilson's mouth. Hot come stung Wilson's lips, and Wilson gagged a little and swallowed some.

They lay on the floor for a while, completely helpless.

Eventually House stirred, and said gruffly, "If I find I can't sit down now, you are in very serious grave deep trouble."

"It'll be worth it. I should get a new job every day," Wilson mumbled back, and House reached down to run an affectionate hand through Wilson's hair.

They hadn't just lifted the Stacy Convention, they'd broken it big time. Wilson knew that guilt would shortly hit House full on, and he'd be lucky if House even let him within arm's length for the next few months.

But it had been totally worth it.

END OF PART 15

* * *

TBC. Next part: Wilson moves to Princeton, and encounters a family member he hasn't seen in years.

A/N: Anybody following this fic may be interested to know that we're now three-quarters of the way through: I've been quite vague about this before, but am now sufficiently near the end that I figure it'll be 20 parts in all. Which is nice :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 16  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta**: triedunture patient as ever

**Summary:** Wilson meets a family member he hasn't seen for a while. House gets fired, again.  
**Excerpt: **_House added as he left, "He's not gonna be a relative of yours, though. Not unless you've got any homeless bums among your cousins."_

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 16**

Wilson had just moved into his new apartment in Princeton, and was feeling very happy. He was due to start his new job at Princeton Plainsboro on Monday, and House was working just down the road at Princeton General. And House and Stacy were only a few minutes away by car. He was whistling while unpacking when his cell rang.

Wilson looked at the display, and was surprised to see it was his brother, Jonathan. They rarely spoke these days. He flipped the phone open. "Hey, Jon?"

"James. How's things?"

"I'm fine, how are you, and the girls?" Wilson was referring to his nieces. He still thought of them as toddlers, although rationally he knew they were now ten years old and growing up fast.

"They're good, I saw them just the other weekend. Scary how much older they get each time I see them... anyway. Look, I was calling because Mom says you're back in Jersey, you've got a new job in Princeton?"

"That's right," Wilson said. "Just moved today."

"Then there's something I should tell you."

Wilson sat down on a nearby chair. "Go on."

"Last time I had any news of David... which was three years ago now... he was supposed to have been moving on to Princeton."

"Really?" Wilson didn't know what to make of this. Jonathan never tired of following up on rumors of his twin's thereabouts. Most proved to be completely unfounded; false trails, Wilson often thought, probably laid by David himself.

"Yeah. I went down of course, spent a couple of days poking around, didn't pick up anything. But thought I should mention it, seeing as you're living there now."

"Thanks. Um, I'll keep an eye out," Wilson said awkwardly.

They exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries and hung up. Wilson carried on unpacking, but his good mood had gone.

* * *

A few weeks later, Wilson had settled in nicely at Princeton Plainsboro, when he got a call from Stacy one evening, begging him to come to their apartment. She and House were flying to San Francisco the following morning for the wedding of a friend of hers, and staying for a week afterwards to make a vacation of it. But she had to finish a legal paper tonight, and House was being disruptive and hadn't even started packing yet...

Wilson went around to find Stacy hammering away at her laptop on the kitchen table with earphones on, doing her best to ignore House, who was hanging around conspicuously not doing much. Wilson managed to find House's suitcase, and after some effort, got House to start throwing some clothes in.

"Why is it no matter how many pairs of socks I have, I never have any socks?" House said petulantly, shutting a drawer with a hip and dropping a handful of socks into the case.

"Dunno." Wilson was settling himself comfortably on the bed to watch House pack. "So, looking forward to your vacation? I can't remember the last time you went away."

"Nor can I." House dumped an armful of T-shirts in the case. "Last time we tried to arrange something, Stacy had to work; time before, it was me." He turned back to the closet and surveyed the contents. "Nearly happened again. I got a case of suspected TB this afternoon, managed to slip the file onto the desk next to mine. I might as well have taken it though, as it turned out to be just a bad cough."

"Oh yeah?" Wilson picked up a magazine and flipped through the pages idly.

"I thought it would have been just my luck, and it would have been your fault by proxy, as the patient was one of the fifty thousand Wilsons living in the tri-state area. Where did Stacy put my blue shirt?"

Wilson perked his ears up, then remarked as casually as he could muster, "He--or she?--could be a distant relative of mine--I've got a few Wilson cousins here in Jersey. He look anything like me?"  
Wilson's tactic was right out of Edgar Allan Poe; hiding the truth in plain sight, the best way he could think of for putting House off any scent.  
"Never saw him. Just the file." House raised his voice. "_Stacy!_ Where's my blue shirt?

"Go away!" an annoyed voice sounded from the kitchen.

"Laundry basket," House realized with the air of divine revelation, and he headed towards the door. House added as he left, "He's not gonna be a relative of yours, though. Not unless you've got any homeless bums among your cousins."

And Wilson thanked his lucky stars that House had been distracted at the time, excited by the forthcoming trip and preoccupied with packing, and was halfway out of the room, as he knew his face would have given his secret away otherwise.

* * *

Wilson had not been a friend of House's for the last ten years without picking up a few tips. He didn't say another word about House's case, and fortunately House apparently wasn't interested enough to mention it again. Wilson stayed at House's apartment until Stacy had finished her work, made polite conversation with her and House for a short while, then excused himself gracefully to let them finish preparing for their vacation.

On his way out he lifted House's office key from the bunch sitting in the hallway. He then went straight to Princeton General.

Wilson had visited House at work a few times and knew his way around. House shared an office with a few other doctors and Wilson was grateful that none of them were there; by this time it was quite late in the evening. He looked at House's desk and shook his head at the mess of papers. The desks nearby were neater, but still with a lot of paperwork.

There was no need to hunt around, however; there was a filing tray on the side of the room, and right on top of them was the most recent case that day, a file marked _David Wilson_.  
It was a thin file. Wilson flipped through it quickly. Very little information. As House had said, the diagnosis had been a bad cough, exacerbated by living on the street. Wilson was sad, but not surprised, to see the file also said _habitual drug user_. There was almost no medical history otherwise. No fixed address. But there was a temporary address--a homeless shelter downtown. Wilson memorized it. He went through the file again, carefully, but there was nothing else helpful at all.

He made sure to leave the room exactly as it had been, then left, his mind whirling. For the first time he was grateful that House hated seeing patients so much; whatever state David was in, he was still Jonathan's twin and House would have recognized him for sure if he'd seen him close-up.

He headed back to House's apartment, apologized for disturbing House and Stacy so late, and retrieved his wallet which had accidentally slipped down the side of the bed earlier. On his way out he replaced House's office key, and was satisfied that he hadn't aroused House's suspicion.

And then he went straight to the homeless shelter. There was no time to be lost; David was in the habit of moving from town to town, and if he'd recently had a brush with officialdom--and a hospital admission undoubtedly counted--he might leave Princeton very soon.

Wilson had never been to this area of town before. He parked some way away, and walked slowly through the surrounding streets towards the shelter. And then, without any trouble at all, he saw his brother, sitting on a bench on the street corner opposite.

Wilson hadn't seen David for many years, but knew exactly what he should look like right now--he should look like Jonathan, his twin. And he did, but much older than Jonathan, even though he and Jon had been born only ten minutes apart. He looked reasonably clean--presumably he had been cleaned up on his hospital admission. Certainly he looked markedly cleaner than the other homeless guy sitting with him. But he looked older than his years. His eyes were sunken, his hair was long and unkempt. He was dragging compulsively on a cigarette, and Wilson's oncologist mind couldn't help but recall the bad cough.

Not wanting to intrude, Wilson stood a little way off in the shadows, waiting. Within a few minutes the two men noticed him. He saw David lift a hand in surprise. Then David turned and said something to the other guy, and stood up. Wilson wasn't at all sure whether David would head towards him or away, but he came towards him.

"Hey, David," Wilson said awkwardly.

"Little bro," David said, for a second sounding almost exactly like a hoarse version of Jonathan. "Now what the hell are you doing here?"

"I've just moved to Princeton. I've got a job at Princeton Plainsboro hospital," Wilson said.

"So that's how you found me. Doctor grapevine," David said disgustedly. "You're a qualified doctor now, are you?"

"That's right."

"Mom and Dad must be very proud." David's voice was neutral, but Wilson squirmed uncomfortably.

"So, how are you, David?"

"Oh, just fine and dandy." David took out a cigarette and held it between twitchy fingers. "Got a bit of a cough. But you'll know that. What's Jon up to these days?"

"Uh, he's OK. He--he would love to hear from you."

David lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Yeah, that's gonna happen."

"David, let me help you," Wilson said urgently. "You--"

_"Fuck off_, James," David said sharply.

Wilson looked at David helplessly. "Can--could we stay in touch?"

"No," David said definitely. " I was thinking about leaving Princeton anyway. Tell Jon to stop wasting his time looking for me."

"He won't," said Wilson.

David shrugged, and started to turn away. Suddenly he paused and looked back at Wilson. There was a speculative look in his eye. "Hey, as you're a doctor now--could you give me a scrip?"

Wilson tensed. "What?"

"A prescription."

"I know. What for?"

David raised his hands. "Whatever."

Wilson stared at him. "For your cough?"

"Naw, I've got stuff for that. For--other stuff. Some kind of opiates maybe."

Suddenly Wilson was transported back to high school. David, home from college, trying to wheedle money out of him, his kid brother. And Wilson was furious. "No way. I'm not giving you anything to get high on. Or to sell on. I am not going to _enable _your addiction."

"Fine," David shot back. "Tell Jon when you see him that I would have stayed in Princeton and even kept in touch if you didn't have your head so far up your own ass."

"David, that's not fair!" Wilson heard his own voice raise in frustration. Suddenly another man appeared, standing right behind David: the other homeless guy. He looked a little older than David, and had dark hair and darker eyes.

"Everything all right, Davey boy?" the other guy said, and Wilson stared, because along with general hostility he could see something else in the man's eyes. A proprietorial glint.

"Yeah, Tom, it's cool. But we'll be leaving Princeton a bit sooner than we planned." David dropped the cigarette and ground it out underfoot. He turned, and touched the other man briefly on the shoulder with a gloved hand. "Let's go."

And he walked away. Tom stared back at Wilson for a few seconds before following, and Wilson gulped: he recognized that look, unfriendly possessiveness. He had seen it in House's eyes before, in relation to himself.

Wilson started to go after them, then stopped after a few paces. Because what could he say? What could he do?

Later, he thought of things he could have said, could have done, and regretted it. But by that time it was too late; David had left town, and Tom too, and although Wilson repeatedly wandered back to the spot he'd seen him, and talked to people at the homeless shelter, it was all to no avail. David had gone underground again.

Wilson called Jonathan to tell him he'd seen David but scared him away. Wilson was careful not to allude to Tom, and couldn't bring himself to mention the prescription thing; he rather thought Jon would say he should have done it, started prescribing, to keep David around. And in fact, Wilson wasn't at all sure if he'd done the right thing or not. Perhaps he should have agreed; maybe it would have been worth it, to get his brother back.

But he'd made the choice, and had to live with it. At least David knew where he was, could find him if he decided he wanted to. Wilson hoped for this for quite a while; but time passed, and nothing happened. Wilson pushed his brother to the back of his mind, and tried not to think about what he should have done differently.

* * *

A few months after Wilson had started working at Princeton Plainsboro, Cuddy invited Wilson, House and Stacy to her home for a dinner party.

It was a very pleasant occasion; Cuddy was an excellent hostess and her large, beautiful home was the perfect surrounding. House was in his element at a table with possibly the only three people in the world who actually liked him. He dominated the conversation, concentrating his considerable intellect on making witty remarks and shrewd observations about life, the universe and everything .

At one point, Wilson and Cuddy were discussing a tricky patient of Wilson's from the clinic; House listened, and made a couple of pertinent suggestions. Wilson nodded and made a mental note; Cuddy was clearly impressed, and said, "Perhaps you should come and work for me at Plainsboro, House."  
"Make me an offer I can't refuse," House said smoothly, and leered at her cleavage.

"Perhaps I'll just wait until Princeton General finally fires you," Cuddy countered. "And then I'll get you cheap."

Wilson thought this was a little too close to the bone to be funny. He and Stacy exchanged glances.

After dinner, Cuddy went to the kitchen to make coffee, and Stacy kept her company. House and Wilson went outside for a breath of fresh air, and wandered around Cuddy's large and beautiful backyard. It was pitch dark by this time in the evening. Although the garden path was dimly lit, once they got to the end of the path and stepped off onto grass it was so dark they could barely see each other.

Wilson sat down under a tree, and heard leaves rustle on the ground as House sat down next to him. He felt House's knee brush his own. He pressed back with his own knee, lightly, then reached out and felt for House's shoulder. Finding it, he leaned his head against it.

They sat there companionably in the dark. It was very quiet, with only the faintest noise and light coming from Cuddy's house in the distance, and they might as well have been the only people in the world.

"It might be fun for me to work at Plainsboro, don't you think?" House remarked.

"What, so you can grope me in my office?" Wilson said, a little sleepily.

"Actually I hadn't thought of that. Best to avoid the temptation." House put a hand on Wilson's knee and squeezed. "You should get yourself a girlfriend. We could double date."

"That sounds appalling," Wilson said, with feeling.

House put a hand up and covered Wilson's face with his palm, as if trying to sense his expression. Wilson breathed gently into House's hand.

"I'd kiss you," House said unexpectedly, "but you stink of that ghastly aftershave, and I think Stacy would notice."

Wilson leaned into House's hand, resting his forehand against House's fingers, and smiled into the darkness. He was happy, and part of that was because he could tell House was happy too. And House was so rarely happy, really.

* * *

As it turned out, House lasted another year at Princeton General before getting fired, for the fourth time in his career. He'd been there a long time, for him, but his boss had been patiently waiting for a major screw up for a while. One day House made a diagnostic leap too far, and a patient died.

With Stacy's help, House breezed through an independent investigative committee and escaped any formal sanction as a physician, but unfortunately he had been on a final written warning. It was the last straw for the hospital administration, and he lost his job.

At least for once there was no need for anguish or job applications. Cuddy surveyed his range of ground-breaking journal articles and influential conference papers, and hired him to work in Princeton Plainsboro's Infectious Diseases department. She knew full well that House would have found it extremely difficult to get a job elsewhere with his employment record;she also knew that House had all the reasons in the world to stay in Princeton, in his apartment, with Stacy, and with Wilson nearby. Wilson gathered from Stacy that Cuddy took some pleasure in halving House's salary: House gritted his teeth and bore it.

* * *

The first couple of years at Princeton Plainsboro were shaky ones for House. Although Wilson tried to be friendly and supportive, the Infectious Diseases department was at the opposite end of the building from the Oncology department and they didn't see each other very often. They would always have lunch together if both were free; but more often than not, one of them wasn't free.

On one particularly trying day, a few months after he'd started working at Plainsboro, House came stomping into Wilson's office and threw himself down on the couch.  
"I'm gonna quit. I'm surrounded by idiots."

Wilson pantomimed looking around his office. "Bad day?"

"Fuckers all hate me. None of them want to work with me, so they're letting me work my own cases, giving me all the hard ones. The patients none of them is intelligent enough to diagnose..." House stared at the ceiling.

"Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes, actually. I don't care if they hate me. But they all think I'm boning Cuddy--Christ, if only!--and that's why I got the job."

Wilson would have liked to have denied that anyone could possibly think that, but he had in fact overheard a nurse express that very opinion in the hospital cafeteria a few days before.

"And I wouldn't care about that either, except it's not fucking fair on Stacy," House went on. "She shouldn't have to put up with this poisonous crap."

"Ah." Wilson was genuinely sorry. Wilson had come to like Stacy very much, indeed to regard her as essential for House's well-being.

"My boss has made it quite clear to Cuddy he's only putting up with me in his precious department because he has to, and he's not responsible for anything I do." House put his feet up on the couch.

Wilson considered "That's okay, right?"

"If Cuddy wasn't likely to be out on her ass herself any moment, then it would be."

Wilson nodded. Cuddy was still relatively new as Dean; some of the board members obviously thought her too young and inexperienced.

He got up from his desk and walked around to perch next to House on the couch. He would have liked to reach out and touch House, but House had been rigorously enforcing the Stacy Convention almost all the time since Wilson had moved to Princeton, and Wilson didn't want to risk a rebuff. Rationally Wilson knew House was only being sensible. Hospital scuttlebutt knew that he and House were close friends, although few people other than Cuddy realized just how long they'd known each other; most people assumed they'd met here at the hospital.

"Cuddy needs time to establish herself," Wilson said eventually. "If you can stick around for a while, she'll ride it out. Try not to commit any sackable offenses for a year or so, perhaps. Or ever, even."

"That is exactly what Stacy says." House closed his eyes. "And she also says to keep on hanging out with you because you're becoming indispensable to the hospital with your readiness to do clinic duty, complete paperwork, serve on committees, assist with fundraising, and generally kowtow and kiss ass as necessary."

Wilson grinned a little, and said, "Cuddy needs some allies." He realized as he spoke that it might be useful to House at some point if Wilson could also become influential in the hospital management. He stored that thought for future consideration.

House reached up and flicked Wilson affectionately on the arm. "I'll try not to kill anyone for a while... can't promise anything though. Especially not with my idiot colleagues."

"Attaboy," Wilson said, and flicked House back.

* * *

As it turned out over the next couple of years, Cuddy had not gotten where she was without a sound grasp of hospital politics. Several regime changes later, some the most senior board members found themselves unexpectedly isolated and took early retirement, or found better jobs elsewhere. Cuddy filled their places with her supporters. Where legal issues threatened, Cuddy brought on Stacy as her muscle and faced them down.

House, for his part, managed to co-exist with his departmental colleagues by more or less ignoring them and by actually doing his job well. Some high-profile patients were saved, the hospital basked in occasional good publicity, and Cuddy generally vindicated in her steady support. As time went on, the rumors about House and Cuddy faded, House and Stacy grew closer than ever, and ironically House got a little more relaxed about occasionally lifting the Stacy Convention with Wilson.

There was only one occasion during this period when the Stacy Convention really got well and truly busted, and the occasion was Wilson's seminal conference paper.

Wilson had now been at Princeton Plainsboro for three years. Taking his cue from Stacy's influence on House, Wilson had worked extremely hard and become increasingly career-minded. Unencumbered by wives or long-term girlfriends, he had little personal life to distract him, and such social life as he had became focused on networking with colleagues, and playing golf or going fishing with potential donors. And hanging out with House, of course; but House had Stacy, and spent most of his own free time with her.

The national oncology conference was being held in New York and Wilson was giving a paper on the first day. Although not earth-shattering, it did break new ground, and the conference was the most important event in the US oncology calendar . He had spent some months researching and writing it, and during the weeks leading up to the conference he started obsessively going over every word, staying late into the night after the working day was over to get it absolutely perfect.

House, whose idea of writing a conference paper was to scribble down a few notes and ad lib, was contemptuous of the time Wilson spent on it ("Wilson, I'm getting the impression you must've cured cancer!") but Wilson ignored him and continued to obsess.

The night before the conference, Wilson went up to New York to stay in a hotel near the venue, to ensure he could arrive promptly the next morning. He was sitting at the bar and reading his paper through (even though by this time he practically knew it by heart) when suddenly there was a _thump_ next to him, and he looked up to find House sitting on the bar stool next to him.

"House, what on earth are you doing here?" Wilson said, apprehensively.

"I've come to stop you stressing yourself out the night before your big paper," House announced. He motioned to the barman. "I'll have what he's having," pointing to Wilson's glass of whiskey. "And on his tab."

Wilson waited until House had his drink in front of him, then asked suspiciously, "And how were you proposing to...stop me stressing myself out?"

House leaned in so nobody else could hear, and hissed quietly, "What you need is a _good hard fuck_."

Thirty seconds ago sex had been the last thing on Wilson's mind, and now--instant erection. He swallowed hard. "Right. And you came all the way to New York to tell me that?"

"Well I could have sent a hooker, but that wouldn't have been as much fun," House said carelessly. "Actually, I could be a hooker, propositioning you at the bar like this. If you're willing to pay for it, I'll take your money."

"Does Stacy know you're here?" Wilson asked, tempted to follow House's line of conversation, but not wanting to let House off the hook quite yet.

"She knows I've come to find you; she thinks I'm taking you on a bar crawl."

Wilson frowned and dropped his voice. "And the Stacy Convention?..."

House had obviously been expecting this and answered readily. "This is a special occasion. Can't have you standing up on the podium tomorrow with everyone thinking you're a sad bastard who obviously isn't getting any."

Wilson spluttered over his drink. "Oh thanks. And since when did you care?" He thought for a few seconds and then looked carefully at House. "You've had a fight with Stacy, haven't you?"

"We never fight," House protested indignantly, but he was lying and he knew Wilson knew he was lying--House and Stacy were both too blunt to never argue. But it didn't happen often, and their fights were usually quickly forgotten.

Wilson would have liked to know what it had been about, but decided not to ask right now. House was offering himself up on a plate, and Wilson knew this wasn't likely to happen again for a long time.

He asked, "So what am I, the revenge fuck?"

House hesitated. "Would you care if you were?"

"Not really." Wilson thought for a moment. "Actually, not at all."

"Then hold that thought." House drained his drink and reached for Wilson's. He leaned in close again, and pushed a knee between Wilson's legs, angling his body so as block any view from the room. "That and the fact its been a long time since I sucked cock."

Wilson breathed deeply; goddamn House for knowing exactly how to turn him on.

House finished Wilson's drink and looked enquiringly at him.

Wilson fished in his pocket for his wallet, took out his key card and slid it across the bar to House. "You go on up. I'll be a few minutes."

House grinned wickedly, pocketed the key card, and glanced down at Wilson's crotch. "You really are a tightly coiled spring just waiting to unroll, aren't you?"

And House got up and left, heading towards the elevator.

Wilson noticed that the barman had seen him slide the key card across to House, and was now looking at him with a knowing expression. Usually this would have concerned Wilson, but right now he really didn't care.

He sat for a couple of minutes until he felt able to stand up without too much embarrassment, then headed up to his room to join House. Wilson half expected House to jump him from behind the door, but House was playing hooker again, and was lying sprawled on the bed with his pants off and his shirt undone.

It was an irresistible sight. Wilson could glimpse just a bit of House's chest hair and the hint of a nipple through the unbuttoned shirt. House's right leg has raised and his thigh, muscular and powerful, was proudly bared. Wilson felt his erection return rapidly, and more forcefully than before.

"So," House said conversationally. "When did you last get laid?"

"Shut up." Wilson was pulling off his tie, kicking off his shoes.

House watched through slits of blue as Wilson dropped his pants and boxers, and joined House on the bed.

"Weren't you saying you wanted to, um..."

"Suck cock," House said in a throaty voice, and Wilson crawled across the bed, straddled House's head, grasped the headboard, and slid his hard-on into House's mouth.

Wilson kept it shallow to start with, partly to let House breathe, partly because he didn't actually need to feel himself all the way down House's throat. House's lips sucking lightly at the head was enough, more than enough, _Christ, _how long had it been?... Wilson honestly couldn't remember; House had always been more eager to receive than give when it came to blow jobs.

He grabbed the headboard and shut his eyes, rocking back and forth, giving himself entirely over to experiencing the nerve endings jumping where House's tongue was lapping away. This was just so _good,_ Wilson would have liked to stay like that forever, but his pulsing cock told him he wasn't going to last long.

"Gonna come," he gasped, and House's bobbing head twitched to indicate assent. Wilson groaned and pushed, and then pulled backwards swiftly as he climaxed, letting his come leak over House's face. House, trapped between Wilson's knees, shifted his head backwards and took it mostly on the chin.

Wilson sat back on his heels, breathing heavily. He felt simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated. House had been right, he had needed this.

"My turn," House muttered, rubbing a hand over his chin and wincing. "Sheesh, Wilson, you must've been building this up for a while."

"Uh." Wilson let himself fall on the bed next to House, suddenly devoid of any energy.

House propped himself up on an elbow. "Foot of the bed."

Wilson wriggled downwards, still scarcely able to think or move, dimly aware of House reaching under the pillow; the crackle of latex, the click of a plastic lid. He reached the foot of the bed and lay sprawled on his back; and then House was there, standing, easing his legs apart.

Wilson closed his eyes and gave himself over to House; House's hands on his thighs, reaching down for his ass. Coldness and wetness made Wilson shudder briefly, and he felt momentarily exposed, before a palm grabbed his hip and House's erection pushed up between his legs.

"Fucking hell!" The angle wasn't quite right: Wilson arched his back and tried to guide House in. House thrust again, better that time, _ohGodohGodohGod_ House's cock right up inside him now; House's hands on his hips, his chest; House's body inches from his own, reverberating heat and sweat and excitement.

"A _good--_" grunt--"_hard--"_ grunt--_"fuck, _that's what you need," House was gabbling close to his ear. Wilson gasped for breath, lost on a wave that was three parts ecstasy to one part anguish; House was slamming into him now, heedless of Wilson's shaking body; slamming between repeated utterances of "_Good--_" grunt--"_hard--"_

House came like a train; Wilson tried to stay still but couldn't help but writhe in soundless bliss.

Afterwards Wilson roused himself sufficiently to reach over to the nightstand and set the alarm for the following morning: he wasn't going to risk being late for his paper.

House stirred as he did so, and murmured, apropos of nothing, "I had a patient complaint yesterday. A mom said I'd tricked her into agreeing treatment for her daughter... "

"Yeah." Wilson vaguely remembered the case from the previous week. House had more or less railroaded a cautious parent into some risky surgery.

"...Stacy defended me. The mom withdrew the complaint, but afterwards Stacy told me I shouldn't have done it. That what I did was unethical and wrong. I said, _so I should have let the kid die?_ and somehow this led to the most enormous fight... turned out I'd also missed our paintball anniversary, because I was at the hospital working three nights in succession last week. She was pretty mad, and so was I."

"So you're a crap boyfriend," Wilson said, and the irony of House lying there with him naked and post-coital was not lost on either of them: House winced. "It's just a fight, you love her and she loves you," Wilson went on hastily. "You'll go back tomorrow and make up, and everything'll be fine."

"Hmph," said House, but he seemed comforted. They fell asleep shortly afterwards, bodies entwined affectionately.

* * *

The next day Wilson gave his paper. House claimed to be going home, but chose to gatecrash the conference instead: Wilson spotted House sitting at the very back of his session.

Wilson was extremely pleased by the reception his paper got. He dealt with a variety of questions afterwards with authority: House kept his mouth shut and shot Wilson occasional grins.

A triumphant Wilson was hanging out with House during the coffee break a bit later on, when a man came up behind Wilson and clapped him on the shoulder. It was the head of oncology at Vancouver. He congratulated Wilson on his paper, and said before walking away, "I'm going to have a job vacancy in a few months time, if you're interested then keep an eye out for it. I think you're just the kind of person I could work with."

Wilson laughed and thanked him, and as soon as he was out of hearing distance House rounded on Wilson and said, "You're not interested."

"No. Well, probably not. No reason to leave Princeton Plainsboro right now." Wilson was giddy with his conference success. "But hey, who knows? Maybe it would be a good thing, different experience, make new contacts, get exposed to new ideas..."

House looked at him through piercing blue eyes. "There's other ways of getting that kind of thing."

Wilson realized suddenly that he'd upset House; he'd forgotten how much House disliked change. "Hey, it's only a thought. I'm not actually planning on going anywhere."

"Yeah." House drummed his fingers on the table, and his eyes grew distant as he thought.

END OF PART 16

* * *

TBC. Next part: the infarction.

A/N: House and Wilson's early years at Princeton Plainsboro are also observed by Nora in Memoirs of an Oncology Department Secretary, chapter 1.


	17. Chapter 17

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 17  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** triedunture still persevering with me  
**A/N:** Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. Later parts drafted and emerging slowly.

**Summary:** The infarction.  
**Excerpt:** _Wilson leaned blearily over, to see House sitting on the floor_ _clutching his leg._

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food:** **Part 17**

House dropped down into the seat opposite Wilson, grabbed the small steaming cup of espresso waiting for him, and downed it in a gulp.

"Needed a hit?" Wilson asked with a smile.

"Patient relapsed in the middle of the night and I had to go in. He's stable now... now it's practically lunchtime. So, what's up?" A waitress appeared, and House ordered another espresso.

Wilson sipped his cappuccino. "Cuddy called me into her office this morning."

"Ooh, summoned to the headmistress' office. Was she waiting to spank you with a ruler?" House glanced sideways, then drained his second espresso, closed his eyes and spoke loudly, "C'mon, caffeine, hit me."

Wilson looked around to see a doctor walk past and shoot House a disapproving glance. It was Dr. Gilbert, a colleague of House's who had found House smoking a cigarette a few weeks before and acted as if he'd caught House mainlining cocaine. Of course House hadn't helped matters by suggesting that perhaps it wasn't just tobacco in the cigarette.

"She wants to loan me to Stanford for six months," Wilson said.

House opened his eyes. "What, they have a shortage of oncologists?"

"No, but they've got someone who wants to come to Princeton Plainsboro and do a project with Brown, and suggested a skills swap. Cuddy's very enthusiastic." Wilson was watching House carefully.

"She would be." House drummed his fingers on the table. "You should go."

"You think?"

"Good résumé points. And you never know when you might need those." House was right; and Wilson knew exactly what he meant. Wilson's boss Dr. Collins, head of oncology, was now fifty-nine years old, and rumor said he wanted to retire at sixty. Wilson had everything going for him except his own age--he was now thirty-five, and any age under forty would be unprecedentedly young to be a department head--but even if he didn't get the top job, the odds would be good for some sort of other promotion at the same time.

"Yes," Wilson agreed.

"Six months is nothing in the grand scheme of things," House said briskly. He reached out, picked up Wilson's cappuccino and took a mouthful. Wilson interpreted this as _I'm OK with this. _"Tell Cuddy you'll go. Why are you asking me, anyway? Shouldn't you be talking to that girlfriend of yours?"

Wilson had started dating a new ER nurse a few months before, but they had drifted apart lately and he didn't want to talk about it. He sought to move the conversation on. "I will... Have you had any luck with Cuddy about your Diagnostics idea?

House had recently become evangelical on the subject of creating a specialist Diagnostics group within the Infectious Diseases Department, led by himself with dedicated staff. He was already effectively specializing in difficult diagnoses, as his colleagues simply kicked all the cases they couldn't solve over to him. But the lack of staff to support his work was a constant frustration, and House was seeking a solution.

"No. She's all hard-headed administrator about it. Told me to write a business case, which is her way of kicking it into the long grass." House finished Wilson's cappuccino and put the mug down. "Have to go now and see if my patient's died."

"Hold on a second." Wilson was coming to a belated realization. "This whole Stanford secondment thing--it came from you, didn't it?"

"What, little me?" House said in a tone of mock surprise.

"You thought I might be tempted by that job in Vancouver, the meet new people, develop new skills thing." It was all becoming clear now. "You suggested to Cuddy she send me on secondment instead."

"Not to Stanford. Cuddy obviously doesn't know the difference between west and east: I told her to find some hospital with a needy oncology department on the east coast. Instead of which she seized on this idea of Brown's." House rolled his eyes. "So it's further away than I figured... but you'll have to come back at the end, because the Stanford doc doesn't want to be away more than six months. He's got ties there, a fiancée with her own career and their wedding scheduled for next year."

Wilson couldn't help but smile: trust House to know more about this whole thing than he did.

* * *

So off Wilson went to Stanford. He did an apartment swap as well as a job swap with his opposite number in Stanford, and found himself living in a large well-furnished condo with two bedrooms. It was fun--it felt a bit like a vacation, albeit a hard working one. Wilson slotted in well with new colleagues in the Stanford oncology department, and found himself exchanging skills and expertise exactly as Cuddy had hoped.

Six months might not be a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it was longer than House and Wilson had ever been apart; Wilson was pleased but not at all surprised when, three months in, House found himself an excuse to visit. He persuaded Princeton Plainsboro to fund a trip for him to visit Stanford's infectious diseases department for a couple of days, and stayed in Wilson's spare room. During the daytime, House and Wilson spent as much time as possible having extended coffee breaks and lunch breaks with each other. The first evening House was out being entertained by the infectious diseases staff, and came back late simply to crash.

The second evening House was free; they met for a drink after Wilson finished work, and House regaled Wilson with Plainsboro gossip. The main item was a new hot woman in the accountancy department called Debbie; half the men in the hospital were finding reasons to query salaries or submit expenses, and some of the women too.

"If Cuddy meant us all to pay attention to our finances by employing Delicious Debs, she certainly succeeded," House concluded.

"Speaking of money, Cuddy find any for your diagnostic group idea?" Wilson asked.

House shook his head mournfully. "Nope, she slapped it down. Do you think three staff is too much to ask for?"

"That's what you asked for?"

"No, I asked for five. I figured she might settle on three. But no, she's full of excuses." House gulped beer. "My stupid fucking so-called colleagues are more impossible than ever. Gilbert caught me sniffing a Magic Marker the other day, and I thought he was going to report me to Cuddy. Stacy says I shouldn't tease him..."

"Good advice."

"Stacy says hello, by the way."

"And how is she?"

"Working too hard, of course," House replied. "But she's promised not to work this weekend after I get back; we've booked a game of golf for Sunday."

They left after one beer, at Wilson's insistence, to go out for dinner--a proper meal in a nice Italian restaurant. Wilson took off his tie, which he'd worn throughout their drink in the bar, and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. House ordered spaghetti and spattered pomodoro sauce around the table each time he sucked up a mouthful; Wilson had meatballs, and House periodically reached across the table to spear one for himself. They finished a decent bottle of wine between them, and set the world to rights in the process. They both laughed a lot, held each other's gazes for just a little longer than necessary, and made sweeping hand gestures to make points without ever quite touching each other. House twirled spaghetti around his fork and sucked sauce off his finger, and Wilson watched and grinned and dipped his eyes. Altogether, the evening had some of the _frisson _of a first date, but overlying a deep affectionate longtime understanding.

Leaving the restaurant, they bumped shoulders companionably as they strolled down to the street to their cab. Wilson hadn't been entirely sure if House would be willing to lift the Stacy Convention on this trip or not, and didn't want to push. But In the semi-darkness of the cab, House sprawled out a little more than necessary so his foot casually rested against Wilson's.

Wilson took that as a hint. Once they were back in his apartment and he'd locked the door behind them, he turned and reached out tentatively, hooking an arm around House's neck. House curled an arm around Wilson's waist in return, and the two of them moved slowly closer to each other until their foreheads were touching. House rubbed his nose a little against Wilson's, and Wilson rubbed back.

"House," Wilson breathed. He hadn't been so close to House for the a while, and the intimacy was so intense that he could hardly bear it.

House didn't make any sound, but his lips moved in a silent, _"Wilson_."

Then their lips met, and Wilson felt their kiss as a pulse directly connected to his groin.

They moved towards the living room in syncopated steps, as if dancing: a very slow, deliberate waltz in the direction of the couch. The couch was large and black and leather, full of feathers and air, with a tendency to swallow people who sat on it. Wilson was used to it, but it had given House a shock when he'd first sat on it the night before. They sank down onto the cushions now, and House let out an _oof _as leather rippled outwards from their bodies.

"What idiotic furniture designer thought this was a good idea?"

"It has some advantages. Like, um, it's wipe clean." Wilson kicked off his shoes and sprawled backwards, the cushions moving underneath him as if it were a giant air bag. House joined him, trying to crawl on hands and knees without much success. He lowered himself on top of Wilson, and Wilson groaned and twitched as he felt House's erection hard up against his leg. Wilson bucked his hips a little, as much as he could do on the couch, pushing his crotch against House's hip.

"Whoa, Jimmy," House muttered into Wilson's mouth, and Wilson clutched at House's shirt as they kissed again, pulling buttons undone and reaching inside to touch House's chest, tweaking chest hair between fingers while sucking on House's tongue. He felt House's hand groping between his legs, and tried to shift his weight a little to allow access. Then House's palm was inside his pants, resting directly on his cock.

"God, _yes_--" Wilson felt his breath shorten and quicken as his cock jumped underneath House's hand. He reached down to undo House's fly, and as he took House into his own hand, House moaned into his ear, then sucked on his earlobe.

Wilson shifted his weight sideways again and now their cocks were sliding together, both slippery with pre-come. House gasped, and Wilson stroked both of them together, then felt House's hand on his own. The two of them rubbed and stroked while the leather cushions ballooned around them; Wilson closed his eyes and rocked, aware of sweat beading on his brow and House's breathless moans on his neck, their cocks slipping and sliding until Wilson couldn't hold back any longer. He came with a cry and a shudder, gushing into House's groin. House followed suit barely a couple of seconds later, like a chain reaction.  
As they both slumped down onto the sofa cushions, House let out a short sharp "Fuck!" and rolled away. There wasn't much room, and he fell right off the couch with another, _"Fuck!"_

"House?" Wilson leaned blearily over, to see House sitting on the floor clutching his leg.

"Cramp." House yanked his pants down and started kneading his right thigh. "Ouch. Glad that didn't happen a minute earlier."

Wilson was concerned, but after a minute the pain seemed to subside, and House clambered back onto the couch and relaxed down beside Wilson. They lay there comfortably for a while, and eventually both of them dozed off.

House flew home the next day. Wilson asked idly while they were waiting at the airport if the cramp had recurred, and House assured him it hadn't. Wilson thought no more of it.

* * *

The following day, House collapsed in agonizing pain during the game of golf. Stacy took him to Princeton Plainsboro, and of course House had had the misfortune to end up with Dr. Gilbert in the ER.

On the first of three days of pain and misdiagnosis, while House was gulping antibiotics and trying to rest, Stacy tentatively wondered aloud if House would like her to try and contact Wilson.

House was adamant that there was no need. "You know what he's like, if he thinks I need him then he'd come haring back across the country. Fucking waste of time for everyone."

Stacy quirked an eyebrow at him. "You don't need him?"

"It's not like he can do anything about it," House snapped. "I need a leg specialist, not an oncologist."

* * *

On the second day, House was sweating through pain and searching books and journal articles for possible answers, when he found an email from Wilson; _"Hope Stacy didn't have to work and you enjoyed the golf. Everyone in infectious diseases here hates you BTW. _

"

House smiled and hit reply, hesitated, then typed, _"Stacy didn't have to work. I guess if I want to visit again I'll have to start courting the Stanford nephrology department."_ And he hit Send swiftly, before he was tempted to add, _And it wasn't cramp, BTW... but I don't know what it is_.

In a moment of agony soon afterwards House wished he hadn't done it, wished Wilson was there; but Stacy was there, supportive and strong. The moment passed, the pain eased briefly, and House reminded himself that there was no point worrying Wilson. Not now, anyway.

* * *

On the third day, House finally figured it out: an aneurysm in an artery in his leg. By this time the necrosis in the muscle tissue was immense, and yet House refused even to consider amputation.

Cuddy, now in charge of his case, said, "You know you're risking organ failure and cardiac arrest if you have bypass surgery instead. What does Wilson think? I can't believe he would--"

"He doesn't fucking know," House barked. "And you're not going to tell him."

"But..." Cuddy was bemused now. "House, he would want to know. Look, I can call--"

"No. The idiot would only want to travel three thousand miles or something, and he wouldn't arrive until after this operation anyway." House was definite. "Get rid of the damn clot and we'll talk about it then."

* * *

Waking after the operation, in excruciating pain, House screamed for Wilson in his delirium; Cuddy bit her lip and was glad that Stacy, pacing the corridor outside, couldn't hear. There were other things to worry about, though. Once House was conscious it became clear that his pain was almost unendurable; and then came his crash and the minute spent clinically dead.

After House had decided to go into the chemically induced coma, Cuddy said firmly, "I'm gonna call Wilson while you're under. He would definitely want to know you were dead and now about to go into a voluntary coma!"

"No, you are not calling him," House said strongly. "He doesn't need to see me like this."

Cuddy pondered this, and eventually decided not to call. The situation was complicated enough as it was, what with Stacy exercising her medical proxy and the second operation underway...

* * *

Wilson was doing not very much at home in Stanford one evening when the phone rang. "Hello?"

"Dr. Wilson, it's Nora."

"Nora?" Wilson was immediately concerned. Nora, the ever-reliable oncology department secretary at Princeton Plainsboro, would never have called for anything less than an emergency. His first thought was for her husband, who had lung cancer and was one of his patients. "Is Jack OK?"

"Jack's fine. I'm—I'm calling about Dr. House."

Wilson groaned. "Break it to me, what's he done?"

"He hasn't done anything. He's—he's sick, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson felt all the blood drain from his face as Nora struggled to explain, words tumbling out: an aneurysm in his leg. Clotting. Left for three days, muscle death. Dr. Cuddy in charge, two operations_._ Nora couldn't express the medical detail as a doctor would have done, but she made a brave stab at it, and Wilson got the picture; and with every word the seriousness of the situation elevated.

"One of the nurses..." Nora hesitated. "She may have been exaggerating, but she saw Dr. House's leg after the second operation, and thought maybe Dr. House wouldn't be able to walk again."

Wilson couldn't speak for a minute as the enormity of this washed around his brain. Nora said a little more, explained that Stacy and Dr. Cuddy had wanted to call him but House hadn't let them. This had a terrible ring of truth to it.

He put down the phone, intending to call Cuddy immediately: but instead he made a swift decision and didn't call Cuddy until he was at the airport, ticket in hand, waiting for his departure gate to come up.

"Cuddy? It's Wilson. I've heard about House."

"Wilson," Cuddy's voice was relieved. "I'm so glad--"

"How is he?" Wilson interrupted.

"He's... not good." Cuddy gave him a summary. Wilson listened, but didn't fully take in the detail about Stacy's decision-making process; he was too busy trying to focus on what physical state House was actually in. At the news that House had actually died on the operating table for more than a minute, Wilson felt his knees buckle. House had _died_. And Wilson hadn't been there.

"Are you coming back?" Cuddy ended by asking tentatively.

"Yes, I'm at the airport. Try and keep him alive for another eight hours," Wilson said tersely. "Cuddy, what day did this all start?"

"Last Sunday."

Wilson realized instantly that was the day after House had left Stanford. "Why wasn't I told earlier?" he asked in disbelief.

Cuddy tried to explain that House had refused to let them; Wilson was not impressed, until suddenly he recalled House's last email to him, a few days ago. The bastard had been concealing it from him then. God that was just so... _House._ Wilson ground his teeth.

His departure gate came up. Wilson hung up the phone and strode swiftly onwards.

On the plane, where he had more than enough time to think through everything while willing the plane on, he suddenly remembered the attack of cramp in House's leg. Wilson felt his stomach flip and turn over, and his heart plummet downwards and out of the plane. It hadn't been cramp. House must have known that, or at least suspected. And he hadn't said a damn thing. And he, Wilson, hadn't noticed, hadn't thought twice about it.

The self-recriminations came thick and fast. The problem had begun right in front of Wilson's nose and he hadn't noticed. And then House had been on an eight-hour flight, which must have exacerbated things. And House wouldn't have been on that flight in the first place, if he hadn't come down to visit Wilson. And then Wilson hadn't been there when House had needed him, had been in incredible pain, had _died_...

Wilson didn't think he could ever forgive himself. The fact that Wilson knew perfectly well that House would think this a ridiculous notion only served to remind him how important House was.

* * *

Back at Plainsboro at last, Wilson burst through the door of Cuddy's office unceremoniously, in a rather House-like way.

"Where is he?" Wilson demanded. "And where's his file?"

Cuddy hesitated and for a second Wilson thought she was about to make some bullshit excuse about doctor-patient confidentiality. Rage flared in his gut; but Cuddy stood up, picked a file up off her desk and handed it to him. She led him out of the room. While they walked, Wilson flipped through the file.

"So... where are we now?" he asked, unable to quickly see from the mass of papers.

"The second op to remove all the dead muscle tissue went well. Except there was a lot of dead muscle tissue. More than we realized... more than House can have realized. He's got a great big hole in his leg, basically. I would say it's fifty-fifty if he can walk again." Cuddy paused, then went on. "Since he woke after the second op and found out what happened he's been...upset. Angry. I've had him sedated, but he just won't sleep, he's fighting it subconsciously, exhausting himself trying to stay awake..."

Wilson swallowed and walked a little faster.

* * *

When Wilson came into the hospital room to see House lying unconscious in the bed, he felt as if his heart cracked open and gave him a brief out-of-body experience. On the one hand he was aware of himself being a doctor, grabbing House's chart, poring over it, barking questions at Cuddy.

On the other hand, he was distant from all that and totally focused on House: pale and helpless, small and vulnerable; a surreal sight. House as patient--it just looked so _wrong. _House was unconscious but not resting, eyes rolling around behind his eyelids, head moving from side to side. Wilson couldn't remember ever having seen House ill before, apart from minor ailments. Colds, headaches, flu (and Wilson remembered House had _never_ been a good patient).

Cuddy left, shutting the door behind her. The blinds were closed: he was alone with House. Wilson stood for a few seconds, feeling his guts wrench, then took a deep breath; he had to be strong for House.

He sat down next to the bed, took House's hand and said gently, "House, it's me. I'm here."

House didn't respond.

"I love you," Wilson whispered, aware as he said it that in all the years he'd known House, he had never said _anything _like that to House before; a giant mental block usually fenced that sort of thing off. He knew House had said _I love you_ to him before, but only on occasions when it could be taken in jest, or ironically. Wilson was only able to say it now himself because House was unconscious. Somehow it seemed important to utter the sentiment; maybe it could get through where words could not be heard.

Wilson settled down in his chair, and a few minutes later House jerked awake; panicking, gulping for air and sweating.

Wilson kept his cool, and leaned in as close as he could through all the tubes and wires, grasping House's shoulders and head. He put his face next to House's cheek, close enough so he could feel the stubble, and said, "House, I'm here. I'm looking after you now. Everything's going to be okay."

_"Wilson," _House managed to say, and Wilson's heart nearly burst. Then House clung to Wilson and sobbed on his shoulder. Wilson realized he'd never seen or heard House cry before; never _ever _seen him scared and helpless like this. Then Wilson realized that he'd never cried in front of House before either, but he was now.

After a few minutes, Wilson saw House's arm move, his hand groping air, and understood that House was feeling for his leg. Wilson placed House's hand on his damaged thigh, and lifted his head so he could see it.

House glanced downwards and gasped, "Every time I go to sleep--I think they've cut it off. I keep thinking--I'm going to wake up and find it gone."

"House, nothing like that is going to happen," Wilson said firmly, blinking back tears, and kept tight hold of House's shoulder.

And after a few minutes House fell asleep, and was resting properly for the first time in days.

Eventually Wilson composed himself enough to let go of House and sit back in the chair. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get his head around the situation. He had to understand it all so he could help House, but it was a lot to take in.

* * *

Nurses wandered in and out, but Wilson didn't move; he stayed very still, not touching House, just being there. After a while the door opened but nobody came in; he looked up to see Cuddy standing in the doorway. He nodded for her to come in.

"Well done, you got him to sleep," she said wonderingly, looking carefully at the monitors.

"He's having nightmares," Wilson explained. "He thinks he's going to wake up and find his leg's been cut off."

Cuddy looked at the floor, then said, "Can I talk to you outside for a minute?"

Wilson didn't want to get up, didn't want to leave House alone for a minute: but House was sleeping soundly. Wilson tweaked a blind open so he could keep an eye on the monitors from the corridor, and followed Cuddy out of the room.

They stood in the corridor, and she said, not meeting his eye, "Actually, Stacy and I have been discussing the amputation option. It will take a little while before we know how successful the debridement was, and he still seems to be in such pain... we did the papers permitting the amputation, just in case. Stacy has them."

Wilson was confused. "But he wouldn't agree. He wouldn't sign any papers like that. You know he'd rather have anything than that."

Cuddy was silent, and Wilson's mind flicked to House's patient file, to the form permitting the second operation. Signed by Stacy. Realization started to dawn, about why Cuddy and Stacy had done that operation while House was in the induced coma. "But... you've overridden him once already. He didn't want that second op, did he? He wanted to wait. He's furious with you, isn't he?"

"Wilson--"

"And now he's scared you'll do it again." Anger started to pulse through Wilson's body. "You've made him furious and you've made him terrified. No wonder he hasn't been sleeping--he's worried that you'll be doing God knows what operations while he's unconscious. And all that on top of agonizing chronic pain. How can you have done it? How can you put him in such a state?"

"Stacy did what she thought was right. She did what _was_ right. She saved his life." Cuddy was firm. "House would probably be dead by now if he hadn't had the second op."

"That's his prerogative. Not yours." Wilson was trembling. "No wonder you didn't call me earlier."

"That's not fair!" Cuddy was stung.

"I may not be his medical proxy but I would never have let you do that, and you know it. And now that I'm here, you're not doing any amputations. Nor any other operations that House doesn't want. Or it'll be over _my _dead body."

Wilson stalked back into House's room. He had to take a moment to calm down before going over to sit next to House again.

* * *

Later that evening, Stacy appeared. By this time Wilson had had a comfy chair brought down from the oncology lounge and had entrenched himself in it next to House's bed. He had his eyes closed, trying to rest, although he wasn't tired: adrenalin from all the events of the day, all the new knowledge, was still pumping round his body. He opened his eyes when she came in, and tensed.

"James, you're back. It's good to see you."

He wondered if she could sense his hostility. "Stacy. Let's talk outside." He looked at House and said quietly, "I'm going out for a minute but I'll be right outside, OK?" There was no sign that House heard, but Wilson was sure the reassurance was important. Wilson and Stacy left the room.

"You got him to sleep," Stacy said, her voice full of relief. "It's been terrible the last couple of days, as if he's been fighting off sleep..."

"Yeah, I guess that's because he can relax with me, as he knows he doesn't have to worry about me amputating his leg."

Stacy grimaced. "Don't, James."

"What do you mean, don't?" Suddenly Wilson was furious again. "How can you even think about it? Against his absolute express wishes? After you've already done one operation he didn't want?"

"It's not that simple," Stacy said angrily. "You weren't here. You--"

"No I wasn't. Because nobody called me. I wonder why?"

They glared at each other.

"Give me those amputation papers," Wilson said quietly. Stacy hesitated, then reached into her briefcase and took out a form. Wilson looked at it just long enough to check what it was--the word _amputation_ jumped out at him--then walked off down the corridor to Cuddy's office.

"James!" Stacy followed him.

Wilson went into Cuddy's office without knocking, went straight to the shredder behind her desk, turned it on and fed the papers through. Cuddy watched, agape. Stacy turned and walked away.

Wilson went back to House's room. He knew the problem wasn't solved, Stacy and Cuddy could organize new papers if they wanted... but he'd made his point, and hoped this was enough to ensure this wouldn't be discussed again unless House went seriously downhill. Which Wilson feared did seem like a real possibility.

* * *

Wilson spent almost all his time by House's bed for the next few days. House found enough comfort in Wilson's presence to relax a bit and sleep, and started to recover. Stacy came to see House every day, but each time House was either asleep when she arrived or got sufficiently agitated by her presence for her to leave after a short while. House wasn't lucid enough to have any kind of argument with her, but each time he saw her his heart rate shot up and his body started trembling, as if he was having a panic attack; the symptoms eased when she left the room. Wilson saw she was greatly distressed by this. He couldn't yet bring himself to feel sorry for her.

Very late in the third evening, Wilson was coming out of a nearby bathroom and heading back towards House when he met Cuddy, in her coat, clearly on her way home and walking past House's room en route. She stopped and looked at him, and asked, "Dr. Wilson, how are you?"

Wilson stopped and stared at her, as if the question was an entirely alien concept. "Me? I'm fine."

In fact, Wilson was so tired that he could barely walk. He couldn't sleep properly in the chair next to House's bed. He woke up every time House's hand twitched, every time House muttered under his breath, every time a monitor beeped unexpectedly. In fact, House was sleeping considerably better than Wilson was now. Wilson was also eating very little, shoveling some hospital cafeteria junk down periodically when he spared a thought for it. He was pale and drawn, and had already lost some weight.

"You look like crap." Cuddy was blunt. "Why don't you go lie down somewhere and take a rest? House is sleeping okay now."

"No. I'm staying," Wilson stated. "I have to be here whenever he wakes up."

"It won't make any difference if you leave just for a few hours--"

At the word _leave_, Wilson flinched visibly, and said much too loudly, "I'm not leaving him!"

Cuddy looked around. The room across the hall from House's room was empty; it also had glass walls. She grabbed Wilson by the elbow and steered him inside. "You can see House from here. Sit down and talk to me."

Wilson sat down, and not averting his gaze from the room opposite, said in a small, tight voice, "I can't let him wake up and think I've left, not even for a minute. I--I wasn't here before when he needed me. I have to be here now." He swallowed, and now his tone was accusatory. "You should have told me earlier."

"You know House didn't want--"

"House is an ass! Surely you and Stacy should have known me better than that."

"I am sorry," Cuddy said quietly. "But there was nothing you could have done--"

"I would have come back," Wilson said, as if this were so obvious he didn't need to say it. "It happened the day after he left. If I'd come back then, I would have been here--in time--"

"You'd have come three thousand miles when we didn't even know what was wrong?" Cuddy asked, sounding a little surprised.

Wilson turned his head and stared at her. "It's House! He's--" Wilson paused, searching for words. _My best friend? My occasional lover? My soulmate?_ _The one who steals my food as a sign of affection? The genius doctor? The selfish bastard who thinks nothing of lying, cheating and stealing to get his way, or just to satisfy his curiosity? The person I care about more than anyone in the world? _All would sound trite, or reveal too much.

"He's--he's been stealing my food for ten years now." He looked at Cuddy and tried to express what else he felt with his eyes. Apparently he succeeded, as her own eyes suddenly filled with tears and she looked away.

"What if--" Wilson hesitated, then plunged on. "He crashed on the table, he was clinically dead for more than a minute. What if he hadn't come back--_what if he'd died_?" There, he'd said it. "Could I have lived with myself, if I hadn't been there?"

Cuddy opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it again. Instead she reached out and patted Wilson lightly on the shoulder, then got up and left. Wilson sat alone for a moment, then got up and went back into House's room.

* * *

Later Wilson thought of it as the moment House returned from the dead; the moment when he was woken from his doze by a familiar voice saying, "Wilson, you're dribbling. If you don't stop soon, one of the nurses will take a picture of you and put it on the hospital intranet."

Wilson opened his eyes, and House was looking right at him with those blue eyes finally clear and _compus mentis_, and oh God it was almost as if the last dreadful week hadn't happened at all. Except that it had, and House was still in the hospital bed, covered in tubes.

Wilson smiled broadly. "How are you feeling?"

"My leg hurts. What goddamn pathetic morphine dose am I on anyway?"

Wilson picked up House's chart and held it up in front of him. House looked at it and grimaced. "You've got to be kidding me."

"No." Wilson didn't need to explain. House had been on the absolute maximum Cuddy had dared give him for a while now; it couldn't go on much longer and House knew it. 'If you're through this first phase now Cuddy will start cutting down soon. Have...have the nightmares stopped?"

House frowned, and when he spoke it was in a deliberately light-hearted way. "You know, I kept dreaming that my leg was going to be cut off while I was asleep. Paranoia or whatever."

House was fishing. Wilson couldn't bring himself to be light-hearted back. "It's not paranoia if they really were out to get you." Wilson explained what had happened with the amputation discussion, trying to be factual, trying not to be judgmental. He hadn't meant for it all to spill out, not so soon, but he really couldn't stand the idea that House thought himself paranoid.

House was amused by the story of the shredded papers, but otherwise not amused at all. Wilson could see him thinking, evaluating, and then--typically--changing the subject. "Wilson, isn't it awfully late? And don't you have a day job to do here, in oncology or somewhere? Go home. And tomorrow, go back to work. Come and see me during your lunch break or something."

Wilson was slightly hurt but mainly relieved that House was starting to show signs of being his old self again. He didn't actually have a home to go to, as the Stanford doctor was living in his apartment. So he checked into a hotel for the night, and fell into a deep sleep for the first time in more than a week.

* * *

Wilson woke early the next day and came promptly into work. It became apparent soon after he arrived in Oncology that things weren't going to be straightforward. Cuddy had contacted Stanford and smoothed things over regarding Wilson's unexpected departure; and although Wilson was technically now working back at Princeton Plainsboro, the Stanford swap doctor was still around to cover the slack. Unfortunately this also meant Wilson didn't have his office or computer. Nora found him a laptop, and Wilson did his best to catch up on email in a conference room.

Cuddy arrived later that morning to update him on events. House had got her to find a lawyer who wasn't Stacy, and made a new medical proxy document. Wilson was now House's medical proxy; Stacy was in Cuddy's office in floods of tears. Wilson was amazed and flattered, and relieved too, but concerned for Stacy.

He didn't feel able to face Stacy right now, so he went to see House. House was looking better: he had a little color in his face now.

Wilson sat down next to the bed, and said, "My first action as your medical proxy will be to put you in another coma, so I can ravage your body."

House looked amused and relieved, but his reply showed that Wilson had inadvertently hit on another touchy subject. "Like anyone will want to ravage my body again."

"House, don't be ridiculous."

"Have you _seen_ it?"

"Your leg? Yes."

"Then you'll know it's repulsive."

Wilson was taken aback. "Well, you're not going to win a Mr. Lovely Legs contest anytime soon. But... it's part of you. It could never be repulsive--"

"I don't believe you. It repulsed Stacy. I saw her face when I woke up after the first op. And the second op."

Wilson got up, walked to the window and flipped the blinds shut. He came back to the bed and whisked the bed covers off House's leg.

"Wilson, get the fuck away from me!"

Wilson placed both hands firmly on House's damaged thigh. House tried to knock him away, but was too weak still to do such a thing. Wilson massaged the tissue around the wound gently.

"That hurts," House complained, but Wilson knew House was full of painkillers, and carried on kneading. Eventually House closed his eyes. Wilson kept one hand on the leg, and moved the other up to touch House's face, and then kissed him on the mouth.

Eventually House mumbled, "You'd better stop that before the nurses start to wonder."

Wilson nodded reluctantly and got up to pull the blinds back. As he sat down again, House said abruptly, "I can't forgive her. I don't think I can ever trust her again."

"You have to try," Wilson said, surprising himself slightly with his own vehemence. "She loves you. You still love her. You've been together five years. You don't want to give all that up in a hurry."

House sighed, closed his eyes, and didn't reply.

END OF PART 17

* * *

TBC. Next part: aftermath.

A/N: The infarction is also told from Nora's point of view in Memoirs of an Oncology Department Secretary, chapter 2: and from Nurse Brenda's point of view in The Most Eligible Man in Princeton Plainsboro. And you can read more about the times House & Wilson said _I love you_ in Just the Pain Meds Talking. Click on my profile for my fic list.


	18. Chapter 18

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 18/20  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta:** triedunture still putting up with me  
**A/N:** Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. Later parts drafted and emerging slowly.

**Summary:** After the infarction: the aftermath.  
**Excerpt:** _House ambled out a minute later, fully dressed, shuffling awkwardly with his cane. Wilson came out into the living room and eyeballed him._ _"Hooker?"_

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food:** **Part 18**

Wilson let himself into House and Stacy's apartment, maneuvering bags of groceries through the door carefully. He found House lying flat on his back on the living room floor, his head and right leg propped up on cushions, his eyes fixed on the TV.

"Hey," Wilson greeted, and moved on to the kitchen without waiting for a reply. He found Stacy with her laptop on the kitchen table, listlessly tapping away at keys. She was pale and drawn, and her hair hung limply across her forehead.

"James, hi." She saw the bags of groceries, and her face creased into an appreciative and apologetic smile. "That's so thoughtful. You're very kind."

"It's no problem." Wilson meant it. He had found doing occasional food shopping an easy way of helping out: it tended to end up on the bottom of Stacy's list of things to do, and left until too late, until House was positively snapping and snarling about lack of sustenance. He moved around the kitchen, putting things away. He left out a tub of ice-cream, picked two spoons off the draining board, and headed into the living room.

House's gaze was still firmly on the TV, although the program was a re-run of an old _General Hospital _which Wilson knew House had watched. Wilson sat down on the floor, leaning back against the couch, and put the ice-cream tub down next to House's elbow. House picked up the tub and inspected the label critically. Apparently Chunky Monkey passed the test, as House pulled off the lid and dug in a spoon.

Wilson knew better than to ask _how's the leg today_, and in any case the sheen of sweat on House's face told its own story. Wilson was about to make some anodyne remark about the TV program, when unexpectedly House spoke up.

"You know," House said in a casual, conversational tone. "Sometimes I find myself thinking _when the pain goes away I'll do x or y_... and then I remember. The pain is never going to go away. Never ever. And then I realize that the human brain can't actually cope with that thought, or it would command the rest of the body to blow it away with a twelve-bore shotgun. So it pretends the pain isn't going to last, that it'll fade, just give it time, time to _heal-_-," House was caustic on the last word, "--time to find some combination of painkillers that actually make the slightest bit of difference..."

House slid a spoonful of ice-cream into his mouth. Wilson reached over with his own spoon.

"I swear this ice-cream is as good as any of these fucking so-called painkillers." House dug his spoon into the tub.

"I'll tell Ben & Jerry's to take out a patent," Wilson said solemnly.

"Buy some shares in them first." House ate ice-cream. "You know, it's amazing what guilt will do. You think Stacy would let me get away with any of this _B.I._?" _B.I._ was _Before Infarction_: _A.I._ was _After Infarction_. House waved an arm around the room, encompassing clothes and books strewn across furniture, plates of half-eaten congealing food sitting at intervals on the floor. "Again, sometimes I catch my brain thinking _make the most of it while you're a cripple, milk it for all it's worth_... only to remember I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life. I guess I can milk people's pity for the rest of my life."

Wilson was used to House's bitterness, but uneasy by the open way House was expressing it. He hoped House didn't have a twelve-bore shotgun hidden away anywhere.

"It's the same with Cuddy," House went on. "You know what she's agreed to?"

Wilson didn't, but he could guess. "Your Diagnostics group idea?"

"Not just a group. An entire department! And as a department head, I get tenure. And three staff--and she even apologized that she couldn't get me five as I'd originally asked for!" House rolled his eyes. "Christ almighty, getting crippled turned out to be my ticket out of Infectious Diseases at long last. I only wish I could say it was worth it."

Wilson was glad at this news. He'd known Cuddy had been steeling herself to drive this through Management Board; it was little short of amazing she had succeeded. He wondered how she had done it.

"It helped that I agreed not to sue the ass off the hospital," House added, as if in answer to Wilson's thought.

"You threatened to sue?"

"I served the papers." House's voice was flat. "Cuddy took one look and did the math. Between three days of misdiagnoses and an operation carried out under highly dubious consent, I could have cost them easily as much in a settlement as it'll cost them to set up the department. And this way Cuddy keeps my expertise and reputation, and all the potential for good publicity and income from donations in the future: she's smart enough to know when she's on to a good thing. Of course, residual guilt from complicity didn't hurt either."

Wilson was silent. House was unable to forgive Stacy and still resentful of Cuddy. Wilson, doing his utmost to help House while keeping out of crossfire, was trying very hard not to take sides.

House shifted his position a little on the floor, and winced. "Stacy's upset I didn't get her law firm to draw up the papers. Like the conflict of interest wouldn't have rendered the whole thing ridiculous... I said to her, you should be grateful I'm not suing you--"

_"House."_ Wilson couldn't let that go. As well as having to cope with House's rage, Stacy was taking by far the worse of the brunt of coping with House's physical therapy--an ordeal Wilson would not have wished on anyone. Everything was new, strange, difficult and terribly painful, and House was not a patient patient. "Give her a break, for goodness sake."

House shut his eyes briefly, then opened them and stared directly up at the ceiling. "I give her a break when my leg gives _me_ a break. Like for thirty seconds at a time. And then the fucking thing spasms and it's so unbearable I can't think of anything except just kill me now--seriously--"

"House!"

"The thing is," House dropped his voice so Wilson could hardly hear. "She loves me so much that she would do anything to keep me alive." _As she did already,_ was the unspoken subtext. "Whereas _you_--" and House's voice suddenly cracked, but continued, barely audible, "love me so much that you would help me end it all. If it came to that."

Wilson sat very still, stunned by House's statement, and knew it was also a question. And Wilson had no doubt the answer was yes, although the thought of such a scenario was more than he could bear to consider.

He pondered his reply for a minute before finally saying in a deliberately light tone, "Well, I missed out on you dying the first time round. I couldn't possibly miss the second time."

And House actually laughed at that, just for a second or two, but a genuine laugh. Wilson relaxed a little, and smiled too.

A little later Wilson got up and took some dirty plates back into the kitchen. He found Stacy still sitting at the kitchen table, not typing any more but just staring at the screen.

"You made him laugh." she said quietly. "I haven't heard him laugh since _B.I._.."

Wilson patted her on the back, sorry beyond words, but with no other comfort to offer.

* * *

Several months on, Wilson found himself sitting at House's kitchen table, gazing at a laptop screen and quite unable to concentrate on the work he had to do.

He was on his own with House now: Stacy had lasted six months _A.I._ before she cracked and left, driven beyond the limits of any reasonable endurance. She had called Wilson to tell him while she was driving away. Wilson recalled House's mantra, second only to 'everybody lies'; _everybody leaves. _He was sure House had not ever envisaged Stacy leaving _B.I_. Now... she'd left. Although Wilson was gutted by her departure, his only surprise was that it hadn't happened earlier. This feeling was reinforced as he found himself trying to pick up the slack; putting up with House's periodic fury, despair and sadness was to be a verbal punching bag.

Emotionally, Wilson wasn't sure if House was ever going to recover. But physically, House was actually much improved: ever since he'd discovered that Vicodin could actually allow him to function. He'd even gone back to work, where Cuddy had built him a big glass office deliberately placed next door to Wilson's. House hadn't actually done much work yet and it was taking a while to recruit staff who could put up with him, but Wilson had hopes they would get there soon.

As he sat pondering, House stalked into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked at Wilson with an expression of incredulity, and barked, "Wilson, it's eleven PM. Don't you have a home to go to? Why are you still here?"

_Because you fell on your ass in the bathroom last week and couldn't get up. Because you wouldn't have eaten dinner today if I hadn't bought groceries, and cooked, too. _Wilson bit back such practical reasons, which he knew House did not want to acknowledge, and said instead mildly, "I'm just trying to finish this funding bid, I'm settled here now. I'll be done and out of your hair in an hour or so."

"Hmph." House opened the fridge door, extracted a soda, shut the door and stalked out again into the living room. Wilson heard the _snap_ of the soda can opening, and the TV volume cranked up a notch.

Alone, Wilson rested his head in his hands in quiet despair. House had shut himself up in a little box where to try and enter was to intrude, yet to leave was to prove House's point that _everybody leaves..._ Wilson couldn't win.

* * *

One day Wilson arrived at House's apartment after work to find, to his amazement, a stethoscope on House's bedroom door handle. Wild thoughts ran through his mind--had Stacy come back? He refrained from knocking with a great effort, and retreated to the kitchen.

He had been semi-living with House since Stacy had left, sleeping on the couch, as it was the only way of getting any sleep--the chronic pain had made House (never the best sleeper anyway) a real insomniac. But also, House could barely stand to be touched; physical contact these days meant being helped with walking, driving, even just standing up sometimes--and allowing people to help him in such a way went against every fiber of House's being. Their physical intimacy wasn't quite non-existent--they'd marked the end of the Stacy Convention with a bout of rough sex that had left Wilson hardly able to sit down and with some prominent bite marks. But it didn't amount to much, either.

Five minutes later the door opened and out stalked a tall thin brunette in a very short skirt and thigh high boots. Wilson managed to say, "Hi," but she barely glanced at him as she left the apartment.

House ambled out a minute later, fully dressed, shuffling awkwardly with his cane. Wilson came out into the living room and eyeballed him. _"Hooker?"_

"Uh huh." House met Wilson's eye.

Too hurt to speak, Wilson stared in disbelief. He knew House had used hookers in the past--but a long way in the past. He also knew that House's sex drive had taken a severe battering from the pain and from the effect of the Vicodin. But even so--

"_Fuck you_, House!" Wilson shouted, the force of his anger surprising even himself.

"Wilson," House snapped. He propped his cane up against the side of the couch and leaned on the back. "The day _you_ get crippled and end up suffering constant agonizing pain, _then_ you can lecture me on not doing whatever the hell I need to do."

"You _need_ a hooker_?_ For fuck's sake, House!"

"When you pay for it, you don't have to give a damn about a whole lot of things," House said, a trifle unexpectedly. "They're used to dealing with miserable fuckers who can't get it any other way. If you warn them in advance about ugly disfiguring disabilities, they don't bat an eyelid. And when you can only get it up once in a blue moon, they're on call."

"And do I not have a phone anymore?" Wilson yelled, and at that moment House grabbed him and kissed him hard.

When he was released a minute later, Wilson was rendered speechless; and then House seized Wilson's hand and placed it over his own crotch. To his amazement, Wilson could feel that House had an erection.

"Didn't you just?--" With his free hand, Wilson gestured madly towards the bedroom and then towards the front door, in the direction where the hooker had left.

"Actually, no." House's blue eyes bored deep into Wilson's face. "Funnily enough, I had a muscle spasm between making the call and her arriving, and the hard-on vanished along the way. She did her best, but... are you going to keep forcing humiliating confessions out of me, or help me do something about it?"

Wilson threw an arm around House's neck and kissed him back, while unbuckling House's belt with his other hand. Then he dropped to his knees on the floor, and took House's cock in his mouth.

House clutched the back of the couch with one hand and grabbed a fistful of Wilson's hair with the other. Wilson took House in as deep as he could, then shallow: up and down, back and forth, cupping and stroking at House's balls with his hand while lapping at the tip with his tongue, making House whine and swear. House's pants were halfway down his legs and the pitted black thigh nestled next to Wilson's face; Wilson didn't flinch, didn't either shy away or move towards it, just concentrated on blowing House the way he always had done.

Soon House's breath caught in his throat, and he pulled out just before he came, climaxing over Wilson's face. Wilson gasped a little, but took it, then sat back on his heels, running a hand across his face and regaining his own breath, while House rested against the couch.

At last, House was coming out of the little box he'd shut himself into. Not a moment too soon. Wilson was so horny he could barely stand, but he tottered to his feet, undoing his own fly, and said, "Turn around."

"My neediness turning you on?" House muttered, and turned around, facing the couch. Wilson reached for his jacket, slung on the back of the couch, and extracted his wallet from a pocket and a condom from the wallet.

"Shut the fuck up," Wilson muttered back, rolling on the condom. He spat on his hand, not wanting to stop and look for any other lubrication at this point, and moved up close behind House. "Gonna let me in?"

House spread his legs a little, awkwardly as he was resting almost all his weight on his left leg and on the couch. It was enough: Wilson reached for House's ass, probed briefly, then eased in. House's breathing became labored and heavy: Wilson ran tender hands across House's torso, stroking, caressing; House relaxed a fraction, and Wilson pushed in harder, clutching House's body up against his own, supporting some of House's weight with his own. House grunted, and the two of them moved together as Wilson closed his eyes and started to thrust using small, forceful movements.

Adrenalin coursed through his system, pumping through his blood; it was so utterly good that House was letting him close again. He reveled in the feel of House's sweat and skin under his hands, the taste of House in his mouth. He grasped House's hips with both hands and came with a rush of exhilaration and joy.

They collapsed onto the couch, and had been lying there together in a stupor for some time, when Wilson heard House speaking in a gentle voice Wilson hadn't heard in a long while.

House said, "We can't spend so much time together. It'll be better if you just come around once in a while."

Wilson twisted his neck to stare at House, and because he was Wilson and House was House, he understood completely. This wasn't a rejection. House was afraid--afraid that he was pushing too hard, that one day he was going to go too far, and he was going to drive Wilson away, just as he had Stacy. And afraid that they were driving each other around the bend, through simple proximity overload.

"I can manage now," House went on, now sounding defensive. "I can drive, I can tell now when the Vicodin's about to give out on me. And--you _do_ have a phone."

Wilson realized House was nervous of being misunderstood. He rubbed his nose, and said, "OK."

He felt House relax under his arm.

The following night after work, Wilson went back to his own apartment rather than House's place for the first time in a while. He just stood in his living room for a few minutes, luxuriating in being on his own, in his own space, while knowing House was just a few streets away. He couldn't let go completely, but he felt much better about it than he had expected. He picked up a magazine, sat down on his sofa, and feeling curiously contented, thought that perhaps life was ready to begin again.

It turned out House was right, as usual. They got along much better with just a little bit of space between them, living close by, seeing each other often but not all the time, ending up in bed together sometimes. Wilson knew House occasionally saw hookers, and did his best not to mind.

* * *

About a year after the infarction, the Head of Oncology, Dr. Collins, finally retired. It had been anticipated for a long time. House was now functioning properly again, with three reliable staff and cases coming in, but Wilson, still exhausted from the whole House situation and other pressures of work, hesitated about whether to apply for the job. With the encouragement of Nora, the Oncology department secretary, he did so; and to the surprise of many, Wilson got the job. He was the youngest department head in the hospital and indeed the youngest head of an oncology department on the eastern seaboard. Wilson threw himself into his new role with care and dedication. As a department head he could have moved to Dr. Collins' big swanky office, but opted to stay where he was, next door to House.

The aftermath of the infarction continued to reverberate for a long time, however. Life really would never be the same again, and Wilson had this brought home forcibly to him when he encountered House's family and their reaction.

Early one morning, Wilson had stayed over at House's apartment and they were sleeping like spoons, Wilson with an arm thrown around House's waist, when the phone by the bed woke them up. Neither moved or opened their eyes, and the answering machine kicked in.

_"Greg, it's your mother. Sorry to call so early. I need to tell you that Uncle Bill passed away yesterday. As you know, he'd been ill for a while. I'm staying with your Aunt Sarah to help her sort things out. The funeral will be this Saturday; it would be very much appreciated if you could come--"_

House reached out and grabbed the phone, knocking the alarm clock onto the floor as he did so, and brought the receiver to his ear. "Mom. Hang on." His voice was groggy with sleep. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and cleared his throat. "That bastard finally fell off his perch?...."

Wilson kept a hand on House's hip and listened, half asleep, while House talked. Suddenly Wilson's attention was caught when House said, "And yes, Wilson will come too, can you book us hotel rooms?" There was a pause. "Great. Thanks. I'll see you Saturday."

As House ended the call, Wilson struggled up to a sitting position, and said indignantly, "Have I just been invited to a _funeral_? Of someone I didn't even know?"

"You met Uncle Bill; cousin Daisy's dad, remember?" House reached for the pill bottle on the nightstand and popped a Vicodin. "Anyway, I need a chaperone."

"That was... years ago. And since when do you do these family things anyway?" In all the time Wilson had known House, he had seen House evade almost every single family get-together possible--birthdays, Christmases, holidays, even cousin Daisy's wedding. He knew this had changed a little during the years that Stacy had been around, however; House's parents had adored her, and she had managed to get House to be civil and sit through at least a couple of dinners and other meetings.

"I don't," House said glumly. "Mom browbeat me about this one a long time ago. Uncle Bill's been dying by inches for the last five years, I always told her there was no fucking way I would visit him while he was alive but I'd see him when he was dead."

Wilson thought this was true, but not the whole truth. "And what if I don't want to come?" Wilson didn't mind coming, but felt bound to protest.

"You have to," House said firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument. "I can't possibly get through a thing like this on my own. Fucking relatives will be averting their eyes from my leg while telling me they're _so sorry Greg, such bad luck, _and then staring at me surreptitiously and nudging each other across the room. Anyway, it was Mom's idea, she asked if you'd come. She seems to think that having you along will stop me dropping out at the last minute."

So this would be the first time House had really faced family members since the infarction. Wilson gulped a little at the prospect. House's parents had visited after it had happened, of course, but House had been barely out of the hospital then. Stacy had been around to deal with them, so Wilson hadn't met them. He'd heard afterwards from Stacy that it had been fairly disastrous...

"She's probably right," Wilson said. He began to remember what Stacy had said. Blythe had been supportive and loving, but obviously upset at not being told the news sooner; House had not been quick to tell them. John had barely been able to look at his newly crippled son, and instead had given House grief about missing his and Blythe's fortieth wedding anniversary a few months _B.I._ Wilson remembered House evading that anniversary: House had told Wilson and Stacy he had no intention of celebrating a marriage he didn't think should have ever taken place. House hadn't been able to explain it in those terms to his Mom, of course, and Wilson thought House had actually felt guilty about not going. The decision to go to this funeral started to make a little more sense.

"Um, won't it look a little odd, me coming along with you to a family funeral?" Wilson asked. "Not the sort of thing... friends usually do."

"You mean it might look scandalous? Don't be silly, you're a respectable divorced man," House said, straight-faced. They looked at each other, sharing the same bed, and both started to laugh at the same time.

* * *

The funeral service itself, in deepest Arizona, passed without event. Wilson did indeed stop House taking a last minute case at work which would have made them miss their flight out. House and Wilson sat at the back at the service, and House provided valued assistance by distracting his cousin's two young children from the solemnity of the situation; he let them play with his cane.

The difficult part came afterwards when the family decamped for a buffet evening meal back at Aunt Sarah's house, and House discovered that they were expected to stay there the night. "Mom, I asked you to book us both into a hotel!"

"But there's no need, there's plenty of room in the house," his mother protested. "Your father and I are staying in the spare room, and you can have your cousin's old bedroom. We've put a mattress on the floor in there for James."

House looked positively murderous at the thought of having to stay at Aunt Sarah's for even one night, and Wilson hastened to say that would be fine. House flounced out in a sulk to the back garden where his cousin's children were playing. Wilson was tempted to join him, but feeling he was expected to be the responsible one (he was used to playing the same role in his own family) he stayed inside making polite chit-chat with elderly relatives. Even if they hadn't met him before, they all knew of him, House's best friend over more than ten years.

Inevitably after a short while circulating, he found himself face-to-face with House's cousin Daisy, who he hadn't seen for a very long time indeed. He still thought of her as a sulky teenager with a crush on him, and was rather surprised to find her all grown up into an elegant twenty-something, and a married mother of two. He expressed condolences for the death of her father. She thanked him prettily for coming, dipped her eyes and tossed her hair: Wilson, aware of her beefcake of a husband on the other side of the room, was careful to keep his distance.

"It's so great you and Greg are still friends after all these years," she chattered. "I was trying to remember when we first met, I was still in high school--such a long time ago now."

"Indeed," Wilson agreed.

"I've hardly got any friends still from that long ago... and those I do have ended up all over the country. They wouldn't have come along with me to a family funeral... you really must be such close friends."

Suddenly Wilson was uneasy. He looked at her, trying to fathom if she was implying anything more: he couldn't tell.

"Well, someone has to put up with House," Wilson replied with a laugh, trying to make light of it.

She looked at him carefully, then shrugged a little. "Yeah, I guess that's true. I know you're a doctor, but it's really very good of you to give him so much of your time."

"Uh..." Wilson wasn't quite such what she meant.

"Now he's a cripple, he must need someone to look after him. As, uh, a carer. I know some people find that kind of thing fulfilling, but I could never do anything like that. It must be such a sacrifice..."

The concept of himself as House's _carer _hit Wilson in the stomach like a physical blow and left him temporarily unable to breathe. On one level, it was true. On another level, the idea offended him so deeply--the idea that his relationship with House could be interpreted just as 'carer to the cripple'--he was tempted for a brief second to out them both there and then, and tell cousin Daisy that he and House had been friends and lovers for well over ten years, thank-you very much, and he wasn't about to abandon House just because House had become disabled--

Wilson escaped to the kitchen, where he drank a tall glass of water and tried to calm down. He told himself that Daisy was stupid and ignorant, but knew he was actually more angry with himself than annoyed with her. He had been so keen to escape the implications of his closeness to House that he had made her assume he was there out of pity. He knew his relationship with House was impossible to explain to anyone--he found it difficult enough to understand himself--but the idea that he was only there out of sympathy, or a sense of duty, upset him greatly.

He wondered what House would think if he'd heard their conversation, and realized abruptly that House was always accusing him of being around because he fed on neediness. Wasn't that the same idea? That Wilson was there because he got some kind of kick out of being needed?...

After a while he felt calm enough to leave the kitchen, but paused at the door as he overhead House's parents talking in the hallway outside. He glanced out; they had their backs to him. They were looking out through the back door at House in the garden. He was sitting comfortably in a deckchair, his cousin's children playing around him. A small boy whizzed around the garden riding House's cane like a broomstick, and a little girl played with a doll at his feet.

"He is very good with kids, isn't he?" Blythe said, ever the proud mother. Wilson thought she was right; House was good with kids, mainly because he never talked down to them.

"Suppose so," John grunted. "'Bout time he got married and had some of his own."

"Oh, there's plenty of time for that," Blythe said quickly.

John snorted and said, "Like any woman will be interested in him now he's a cripple."

Blythe protested, "That's ridiculous. He's still the same person he ever was--"

"How many women are going to saddle themselves for a lifetime with a man with a big black hole in his leg?" John steamrollered on. "Look what happened with Stacy. You had such high hopes of her. Intelligent and attractive woman, but couldn't handle spending the rest of her life with a gimp. "

Wilson grimaced.

"The situation was much more complicated than that," Blythe defended her son.

"Yeah, but that's what it boils down to." John spoke with an air of finality. "Look at him now. Here at this funeral with Wilson, for Christ's sake. Too goddamn close they are if you ask me."

Wilson froze; this was dangerous territory.

"Now, John," Blythe chided him. "I asked James to come today. And you know I won't hear a word against him, he's a good influence and always has been."

"Two divorces and no kids and you call that a good influence? And the two of them working in the same hospital, in offices next door to each other? If he wasn't my son, I'd say it was..." John paused for consideration. "Unhealthy."

"John, we should be really very grateful to James. If Greg didn't have such a good friend nearby, I dread to think how much more difficult life would be for him. It's quite difficult enough as it is."

"Yeah. We should be grateful that one person in the world is willing to put up with his crap. Now he's gonna be crippled for the rest of his life, he needs all the friends he can get. And he's never been any good at making friends." John's attention was caught by one of the children in the garden. "Look at those kids running wild. Their mother's much too lenient with them. They could both do with a bit of discipline. Never did Greg any harm."

_The fuck it didn't, _Wilson thought. He was unable to listen any more. He felt sick. He knew very little about House's childhood--and didn't ask, as he had no wish for House to ask about his own--but he had no doubt that House's relationship with his father had done him a great deal of harm.

Wilson slipped across the hallway into the living room, then headed out through the French windows into the garden, wanting to be with House, not wanting to talk to anyone else.

As Wilson approached, he saw the small girl at House's feet was playing at differential diagnosis. A doll with red dots lipsticked all over its face sat on the ground. There was even a small whiteboard, which had 'Measles' and 'Chicken pox' listed on it in a child's hand.

"Cute." Wilson sat in a deckchair next to House.

"Dolly's not responding to treatment," House said, and looked at Wilson. He frowned, and lowered his voice so the children didn't hear. "Looks like you're in need of some treatment yourself."

Wilson could lie to House better than anyone could, but knew he looked too shocked right now to deny anything was wrong. "I just overheard your father saying some stuff." Wild horses would not have dragged out of Wilson what House's father had said about Stacy, or the necessity of disciplining children, but he realized he could repeat what he'd heard about himself, which he cared least about. "Listeners never hear good of themselves, as they say."

"What did he say?" House asked quietly.

"Oh... I'm a bad influence on you. My two divorces and lack of children makes me suspicious. We're too close. Nothing, really."

House snorted, and shrugged. "Just the usual crap. Ignore him. I knew we should have gone to a hotel." He paused and looked ruminative. "He's not the only one saying that sort of thing. Did you hear there's a hospital betting pool about us fucking?"

"In Radiology?" Wilson had indeed heard. He hadn't been surprised, nor cared particularly--the hospital was such a rumor-mill. "Should we worry about it?"

"Nah. Radiology have had a pool about me and Cuddy for years. They just let these things run and run." House looked down at the little girl and her doll and raised his voice. "Dr. Wilson! I need a consult. Symptoms, red spots."

* * *

The evening dragged on. Eventually it was sufficiently late that they were able to withdraw from company and go to their room. It had been cousin Daisy's room before she had grown up and left home, and was still decorated with pictures of ponies and pop stars from ten years ago, which felt a trifle surreal. A mattress had been made up on the floor for Wilson, who initially settled down on it, then got up and slid into the single bed next to House. It was narrow, but cozy.

"Not a good idea," House muttered. "Mom and Dad are just next door."

"I just want to lie here," Wilson murmured back, nestling up against House's shoulder.

House nuzzled him back. "Still not a good idea. No lock on the door."

"No one's gonna come busting in, are they?"

House was silent for a moment, then said, "I never had a lock on my bedroom door when I was young, and my dad always used to barge in at odd moments. I think he thought he might catch me jerking off."

Such an insight into House's family background was a rarity indeed. Wilson didn't say anything for a minute in acknowledgment. Then he got up, took a desk chair, and wedged it firmly under the door handle.

"That's not gonna stop anyone," House said scornfully, but he was smiling now.

"True," Wilson said, getting back into bed with House, "But it'll hold them up long enough that I can roll out of bed and drop onto the floor, right?"

House looked at Wilson and smiled again. Wilson put his arms around House and hugged him through the night.

END OF PART 18

* * *

TBC. Next part: Wilson falls in love and gets married. But not to the same person.

A/N: For my other fics, click on my username. Some connected with this story here are as follows:

The bout of rough sex marking the end of the Stacy Convention is in Reality Bites.  
Wilson's appointment as Head of Oncology is told from Nora's point of view in Memoirs of an Oncology Department Secretary, chapter 2.  
Wilson's previous encounters with cousin Daisy are in Wilson the Parent Charmer.  
And the story of the betting pool continues many years later in The House/Wilson First Fuck Radiology Betting Pool.


	19. Chapter 19

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 19/20  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta**: triedunture magnificent again  
**A/N:** Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. One more part to come. There are references here to my OMCs Chris and Dan, last seen in this fic back in part 13.

**Summary: **Wilson falls in love. And gets married, but not to the same person. House launches Operation Chris.  
**Excerpt: **_"This is a very, very bad joke, right?" House said slowly._

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 19**

Wilson felt he should have some kind of activity outside work and House, and decided to start an evening class. He chose cookery, as he had always been reasonably good at cooking without ever really having learned about it. He didn't tell House, but of course House noticed his disappearance on the same evening each week so eventually Wilson had to tell him.

"Cooking?" House said with derision. "You've got to be kidding. You're probably the only male there."

"No, there are three of us," Wilson countered, not mentioning that the other two men were there together and obviously a couple.

"Then the other two must be gay," House batted right back. "And I bet every woman there is hitting on you--"

"Actually, the woman I'm working with is married," Wilson said in exasperation. They'd been paired up in class to share a cooker and pots and pans: he'd been put with a small dark haired woman called Julie, who seemed very nice.

"No happily married woman would be at a cooking class," House said simply, and as Wilson had indeed got an inkling that Julie's marriage might not be perfect, he didn't dare reply.

House let it go, though. He had now learned to gauge Vicodin levels and mastered the use of his cane, and was largely occupied with establishing a niche and reputation for the Department of Diagnostics. As time went on and patients were successfully treated, his fame spread and he found himself with more referrals than he could cope with. He started to become much more choosy about the cases he took.

Meanwhile Wilson did learn some cooking skills, and was particularly pleased with the stuffed peppers he managed to make in the third week. He had to stop the evening classes soon afterwards though, as Cuddy rotated him onto Finance Committee which met the same evening. But he kept in touch with Julie. They got on well, she did indeed have problems with a philandering husband for which she clearly needed a sympathetic ear, and it was nice to have a friend other than House to socialize with occasionally.

And things might have bumbled on like that indefinitely, except that one day in the clinic Wilson ran into someone he'd had a brief encounter with ten years ago. A fair-haired gray-eyed man in biking leathers, called Chris. And the sexual chemistry they'd had ten years previously was still there, and as strong and immediate as ever.

* * *

It was obvious to House from the start that he was seeing _Wilson in love._ Wilson was going around the hospital with a goofy grin, a spring in his step, and a sparkle in his eye-- House found it fascinating to observe. He couldn't help but think he hadn't seen Wilson like this with either of his ex-wives. Once House had found out just who Wilson had fallen for, and was sure that Wilson would still be there for him regardless, he chose to be magnanimous and let the relationship take its course.

"Are you really okay with this?" Wilson asked hesitantly over lunch, the day after House had found out.

"Why wouldn't I be?" House said carelessly, plucking a chocolate chip out of Wilson's muffin. "You're both sufficiently screwed up individuals that it's not gonna last very long."

"Humph." Wilson obviously didn't like that comment, but wasn't prepared to argue the point.

House took occasional pleasure in summoning Wilson away from Chris to his side for reasons which were sometimes serious and sometimes trivial, and thus not-so subtly reinforced the message to Chris that he was there on House's sufferance. Chris apparently bore this as the price to pay for seeing Wilson. Wilson, very much having his cake and eating it, continued to bounce around the hospital on cloud nine.

Of course, House had no intention of letting Wilson spend significant amounts of time with anyone without checking them out, and shortly after Chris came on the scene, _Operation Chris_ swung into action.

* * *

In stage one of _Operation Chris_, House followed his tried and tested diagnostic methodology and broke into Chris's home.

Wilson and Chris had swiftly gotten into a routine, Chris dropping by Princeton during the week, Wilson driving down to the Jersey coast on weekends. House waited for a day where he was one hundred percent certain that Chris and Wilson were in Princeton, traveled down to the coast, and spent a happy few hours combing Chris's empty house. There were no smoking guns. Possessions of note included an excellent selection of Scotch whiskeys--House tasted a couple of the open bottles judiciously--and a very decent porn collection (House expected no less from the proprietor of a string of gay bars and clubs), but nothing too outrageous, plus a reassuring number of boxes of condoms close at hand. A large amount of cigarettes were present but stashed slightly out of easy reach (this made sense, House knew Wilson would be putting Chris under pressure to cut down), and there was some pot hidden away but a disappointing lack of hard drugs.

The presence of Edward, Chris's former boyfriend, ran glinting like a silver thread through the house. Edward had died in a motorcycle accident about two years ago (at approximately the same time as House's own infarction, House noted with unease). Edward had worn glasses, but otherwise had borne a strong resemblance to Wilson. There was little on show--just the one picture of him, a large and beautiful photograph in an exquisite hardwood frame, on display in the bedroom. But poking a little below the surface, House found Edward everywhere. He was peppered through old photograph albums, in holiday snapshots, posing and smiling next to buildings. There was a file of legal paperwork at the back of a drawer which showed they had done their best to formalize their relationship: wills in each other's favor, medical proxies, joint taxes... House had no doubt that if the law had allowed, Edward and Chris would have gone down the aisle together a long time ago.

"You know you're just a surrogate for the dead boyfriend," House observed to Wilson in front of the TV the following evening.

Wilson glared at him. "That's not true. But you know what? If it is true, I don't care."

"Fine." House thought Wilson actually believed this, at least at the moment.

But it wasn't fine; House found himself unexpectedly preoccupied with what it was going to be like for Wilson when this relationship ended. Because House knew it wouldn't last, and Wilson was in love, but House was unsure what Chris really felt for Wilson. Beyond raw lust, of course, which House could understand perfectly well.

* * *

In stage two of _Operation Chris_, House sought out an old acquaintance who knew Chris quite well, and Wilson a little.

"You've got some fucking nerve!" was Dan's reaction when he found House waiting as his next customer in the hairdresser's chair. House had been in a relationship with Dan many years ago, and it hadn't so much ended as repeatedly stalled. Their last meeting, not long after the infarction when House had still been coming to terms with the cane, had ended rather abruptly; House had chosen to track Dan down at work rather than home to avoid getting the door slammed in his face.

"I need a haircut. And I need to know about Chris," House stated.

Dan shook his head. "You trust me with a pair of scissors close to your ear?"

"I thought you wouldn't be able to resist telling me how much my hair's thinned since last time," House said brightly. "Even though that's a complete lie, of course..."

House was pretty sure he'd played this one right: he knew Dan had a soft spot for him still. And after a moment's hesitation Dan ran a hand through House's hair and said, "Fine: but this is not on the house. Pun fully intended. And you _are_ still thinning.... The usual?"

House relaxed and enjoyed having his hair cut, while finding out about Dan's latest loser boyfriend. They went for coffee afterwards, where Dan made a point of making House pay for the coffee.

Once settled, Dan said, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you. I saw Chris and Wilson at the club last week, you could've knocked me down with a feather. How long's that been going on?"

"A few weeks." House was impatient: he was there to get information, not to give it out. "Tell me everything you know about Chris."

Dan obliged, but it didn't add greatly to the sum of House's knowledge. As well as his seafront club, which was his main office and place to hang out, Chris owned a number of bars and restaurants in the area, and had done for the last fifteen years or so. He was regarded as a respectable pillar of the local business community and his outlets were the mainstay of the local gay community: Dan wasn't exactly a friend of Chris's but knew him well enough to nod to. Dan confirmed that Edward had been Chris's true love through the ten years they had been together. Chris had come close to self-destruction in the aftermath of his death, but was widely thought to be over it now.

"At least, until he walked in with Wilson last week," Dan concluded. "Everybody who knew Edward can see the resemblance... it must be pretty odd for Wilson."

House drummed his fingers on the table. "What did they do? How did they look together?"

"Close. Chris barely let Wilson out of his sight all evening. Um... Wilson played poker with us, he finished down a few bucks but it was a good game." Dan hesitated. "If I hadn't known about you, I'd have thought... what everyone said. It looks like they've fallen for each other, big time."

House probed a little further, but got little more. He soon deemed it prudent to leave, as Dan started batting his eyelashes. House was fairly sure he could have gotten laid if he'd wanted; but he didn't want. Mainly because he knew the Vicodin he'd taken before he'd walked into the hairdresser were going to keep any erection at bay for hours, and he wasn't going to admit that to Dan.

He managed to depart without having to either blow Dan off or blow him, and left dissatisfied in more ways than one. It was one thing to get someone else's opinion of Wilson and Chris, but House didn't trust it any more than he trusted other doctors' opinions on this patients. He had to see them for himself.

* * *

In stage three of _Operation Chris_, House racked his brains to think how to spy on Wilson and Chris when nobody else was around. It wasn't easy. He could see Wilson any time, of course, but he didn't often see Chris. He didn't like Chris and he knew Chris didn't like him: they tolerated each other's existence. It wasn't as if they were going to all go out drinking together.

Chris never came into the hospital, although House occasionally saw him waiting some way outside for Wilson, usually chain smoking rather surreptitiously. Sometimes House saw them briefly together if Wilson was leaving him to meet Chris, or if Chris dropped Wilson back at House's, and House caught glimpses of affection on both sides. But these were brief encounters and he knew both Wilson and Chris would be guarded around him. House considered bugging either Wilson's apartment or Chris's home, but that would have involved getting some kind of specialist equipment or perhaps hiring a PI, and House drew the line at that--for the moment, anyway.

An alternative idea came to him when he found out via Wilson's private email that Wilson and Chris were planning a barbecue together at Chris's one weekend. They would be outside, and alone: House just had to figure out a way to see them there. House drove down early that afternoon to explore the area. Chris had his own strip of private beach, conveniently bounded on both sides by high rocks. On one side there was some seriously overgrown shrubbery around the rocks. House investigated that side, and found the neighboring property empty with a 'For Rent' sign out on the road. It was late in the year for summer rentals. House had no compunction in breaking a rather feeble padlock to allow himself to drive down the side of the house, and pulled off the driveway into the shrubbery down the end. It gave him a reasonable view of Chris's stretch of beach. House thought it possible they might also be able to glimpse his car, but hoped they wouldn't think anything of it.

He sat for a while, idly watching, and sat up when Chris came outside to set up the barbecue. Wilson arrived soon afterwards: House pulled out binoculars to observe Wilson get out of his car and walk down to the beach. Wilson and Chris greeted each other with a long kiss and an even longer embrace.

"Get a room already," House muttered to himself. He squinted, and saw Wilson put a hand on Chris's ass, Chris hook a finger over Wilson's belt. Suddenly House was uncomfortable: what if they started fucking right there on the beach? He wasn't sure he could cope with seeing that...

Fortunately they stopped necking after a couple of minutes, and started talking and preparing the barbecue instead. House was far too far away to hear anything, but he could see the body language. He could tell they were comfortable with each other. There was a lot of touching; shoulders brushing, hands flicking, elbows nudging; they seemed to be flirting gently almost all the time. So what: House already knew they were hot for each other.

But they also looked very... couple-y. So what: House told himself that if he picked up his cell right now and dialed Wilson, Wilson would up and leave in a heartbeat.

Time passed. Wilson took over the barbecue supervision. Chris wandered in and out of the house with food and wine. House watched burgers start to brown and sausages sizzle, and cursed his lack of forethought in not bringing food with him. He put the binoculars down and sat for a while, listening to jazz on the car radio, wondering if there was any point staying much longer. Then he started rooting through the car, delving into old paper bags; there must be some food around somewhere....

Suddenly there was a tap on the car window: House nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked around to see Wilson standing outside, looking a splendid mix of annoyed and amused. House grinned, slightly abashed to have been caught, but not worried. Wilson walked around the car and got in the passenger side.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said, and to House's delight, handed him a small foil-wrapped package. House unwrapped it to find a small steak and two chicken wings, fresh from the barbecue.

"Wilson, you beauty," House said fervently, and fell on the food as if starving.

"You are a complete ass," Wilson said, watching House eat. "If Chris knew you were spying on us he would go ballistic."

"Where is he?" House said indistinctly, through a mouthful of steak.

"He got a call from his manager at the bar on the high road. There was a fight this evening, the bartender got glassed and ended up in ER. Chris went to visit him, he'll be a while." Wilson laced his fingers together and stretched out his arms. "We spotted your car earlier, Chris thought it was just kids messing around, with this property empty it's a bit of a local lover's lane spot. I wasn't so sure..."

House continued to eat. Wilson gazed out of the window down to the sea.

"House," Wilson said presently. "If me seeing Chris is such a problem, you need to say so."

"It's not a problem." House licked his fingers.

"Then why--" Wilson gestured helplessly around the car, and answered his own question. "You still have to know everything, understand everything."

"That's right." House screwed the empty foil into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat. "I give it six months."

"You're an ass," Wilson repeated, his tone exasperated. "Go home."

He got out of the car and walked away. House waited for a minute, then reversed the car back up the drive, and headed home. He decided he'd seen enough; he'd let events take their course.

* * *

Some six months later it ended. House got the call while out at off-track betting: he arrived at Wilson's apartment to find Chris chalk-white on his way out of the door, and Wilson huddled away in his bedroom. House called out to Wilson that he was going to drink all the alcohol in the house, then settled himself on Wilson's couch, turned on the TV and started to make good on his promise.

Wilson emerged half an hour later, his face red and blotchy. He sat down next to House and poured himself a liberal measure of whiskey.

"He called me _Edward_," Wilson muttered, his voice thick with misery, and House guessed this had happened at some screamingly orgasmic moment.

"Fuck him," House said simply, and that was all they said on the matter.

They drank and watched low-brow TV through the night, Wilson speaking little but getting more and more maudlin. Eventually they both fell into an alcoholic stupor. House awoke with a roaring headache to find Wilson asleep with his head on House's lap: House jostled him awake and they struggled into work, although they might as well not have done for all the work either of them actually got done that day.

* * *

House kept a sharp eye on Wilson over the next few weeks, but Wilson steered clear of meltdown and gradually sloughed off the obvious broken heart. After a short while he even started dating again, and House was not at all surprised that it was a woman this time. His friend Julie had finally split up with her husband, Wilson commiserated and gave her support, and she soon become more than a friend. House mentally ascribed this as a rebound fuck for both of them, and didn't give it much thought.

Wilson initially kept House and Julie apart, but there came a point where both best friend and girlfriend found this sufficiently odd that they had to meet. Wilson introduced them for the first time briefly at a crowded hospital fundraising event, and House was slightly perturbed to find she was petite and brunette. Wilson had a particular weakness for small vulnerable dark-haired women.

They next met a week or so later in a bar; House and Wilson had gone there after work and Julie arrived to meet Wilson as they were off to the movies. Wilson excused himself to go to the bathroom, and House had a few minutes conversation with her on their own.

"So, you're in the middle of a divorce?" House said, never one to shy away from possibly delicate topics. "What did he do--screw around? Beat you up?"

Julie responded to the direct question. "He had affairs, yes, he always did." She spoke quietly and her face was wan and pinched.

"And you just lived with it?..."

"For years. My friends always told me I was a fool, but I was scared to confront him, and I didn't want to leave the house. We got married out of college, I've never lived on my own, never worked..." Julie paused. "But then I discovered recently he had a second home with his secretary, and they have two kids. That was too much..."

"Jesus." House wasn't going to say he was sorry, but thought that word and his tone acknowledged the crappiness of that situation. Wow, this desperate housewife had neediness overload. No wonder Wilson had been moved to help her. He wondered absently what she was like in bed. House had never been remotely attracted to any of Wilson's wives and girlfriends, but thought this one seemed a little... numb. Frigid, perhaps? Or a dynamo below the quiet surface?

He asked abruptly, "What meds are you on?"

She look surprised, then shrugged. "Valium. Have been for years, on and off."

So Wilson had found himself another druggie, too. House took out his pill bottle and popped a Vicodin absent-mindedly.

"I was in despair about what to do, but James has been an absolute rock," Julie went on, her voice filled with warmth and gratitude.

"Of course he has," House said, putting the bottle back in his pocket. "He can never resist a bird with a broken wing."

And unexpectedly, her eyes dropped to his cane. House mentally kicked himself, and glared at her, daring her to say anything. She didn't, but she did shoot him an amused smile, and he thought maybe there was a little more backbone to her than he'd realized.

But on reflection, House didn't think there was anything to worry about. Julie was queen of the needy right now, but she'd get through this divorce. Wilson would help her find her feet and bring her out of her shell, and as she did she'd lose her attraction for him. House had seen it all before.

With hindsight House realized he'd underestimated her.

* * *

One Friday evening Wilson came round to House's apartment clutching a small paper bag and an envelope.

"There'd better be candy in there," House gestured at the bag.

"Indeed." Wilson sat next to House on the couch and handed him the bag. House opened it, and was pleasantly surprised to find fudge. Wilson dipped a hand in and proffered House a large chunk of fudge from his fingertips. House moved his face forward and took the fudge into his mouth; it was a little large to swallow, so he held it between his teeth and bit it. Wilson moved forward too, and slid his own mouth over half the chunk of fudge. They necked like that for a few minutes, the fudge oozing to fill both their cheeks and rapidly melting between their lips.

House was already moving gently from flaccid to semi-hard when he felt Wilson's hand drop into his lap and cup his groin. Semi swiftly became full-blown hard. Sugar crystals lingered on his lips as Wilson undid his pants: House levered himself upwards a notch to allow Wilson to yank them down to his knees.

And then Wilson dropped to his knees, and House closed his eyes and clutched the armrest of the couch as Wilson took him in his mouth.

Damnit, Wilson had always been good at blowjobs. But House had to admit (to himself; never to Wilson) that over those six months with Chris, Wilson had them down to a fine art, that now came pretty well close to perfection. House felt as if his body were a cello, with his spine as its strings, and the strings reverberated with heavenly music as Wilson played him. House sat splayed on the couch in silent, gorgeous ecstasy until the tip of Wilson's tongue right on his slit toppled him over the edge, and he came into Wilson's mouth with a twitch and a gasp.

A minute later, when his senses began to return, he felt paper slide between the fingers of his right hand. He opened his eyes to see the envelope Wilson had brought.

"What the hell?" House mumbled suspiciously. He peered at Wilson's face, resting against his left thigh; it was smeared with semen, but otherwise bland and innocent. House couldn't even begin to guess, so slit the envelope instead. Inside was a first class plane ticket to Las Vegas. "What the _hell?_"

"Julie and I are going to Vegas tomorrow to get married," Wilson said brightly. "I need you to come along and be a witness."

"This is a very, very bad joke, right?" House said slowly. His senses were still barely functioning; he really thought he must have misheard.

"No. Julie's bringing Larissa to be the other witness. It'll be fun going to Vegas; you can play poker all night."

"We've got Atlantic City just down the road for that," House snapped. His eyes and ears started to clear, and he began to realize that something very major was going on. "What... why? Why now? You've only been going out six months!"

"Because." Wilson spread out his hands. "Her divorce just came through. It's the right thing to do. We love each other."

"Oh _please._" House delved into his shirt pocket for his pill bottle and swallowed first one Vicodin, then another, figuring that the situation warranted it. The post-orgasmic fog was rapidly departing now. "She's just terrified of being single after all these years as a housewife to that cheating ex-husband of hers. She wants to be married to a handsome successful departmental head doctor, who earns a decent salary and can keep her in the style in which she has become accustomed."

"House, that's not fair. I love her."

"You _want_ to love her. After your _last_ relationship crashed and burned, you've told yourself that kind of thing could never work, and reverted back to your old hankering for a nice little wife and home in the suburbs. You're deceiving yourself. You're hard on the rebound, and you know it. This is a rebound fuck gone to the worst extremes ever." House threw the plane ticket down on the couch. "I'm not coming. I'm not enabling this."

"House, please, I'm begging you." Wilson looked imploringly at him. "After all these years, after all the stuff we've gone through--I'm doing this, and I really need you to be there with me."

"And you come here to ask with a bag of fudge and a blow-job?" House said incredulously, and as he spoke he realized it wasn't as ridiculous as it sounded. It was actually highly symbolic: Wilson conveying that food and sex would still be supplied. And goddamn, Wilson was actually on his knees, between House's legs, his smooth cheek resting against House's bare thigh, one hand resting lightly on House's knee. House could still taste sugar on his lips. He looked into Wilson's brown eyes, and was lost.

"The flight will kill my leg," House mumbled.

Wilson reached out and ran his palm very lightly over House's bad thigh in a tiny, gentle caress.

* * *

The plane journey early the next day was a nightmare. House could barely bring himself to be civil to Julie, who was beaming and happy. Worse, Larissa was there, Julie's best friend. House had met her a couple of times, briefly: she was a dumb blonde with a big mouth and an annoying laugh. They had to sit in two pairs of seats on the plane, and as there was no way House could bear to sit next to Larissa for eight hours, the girls sat together and Wilson next to House. Which was just as well, as House's leg seized up two hours in, and left him in agony for the next hour before extra Vicodin started to make any impact.

By the time they arrived in Vegas, House was furious with Wilson, his leg, and the world in general; Wilson was a nervous wreck; and the girls had got drunk together on the plane and kept giggling, which exasperated House even more. They checked into the Wynn, with suites for all of them; House nabbed the biggest set of rooms, and was pleasantly surprised to walk in the door and find a Jacuzzi. He spent the next couple of hours recovering in the Jacuzzi until he started to feel vaguely human again.

The wedding that evening was surreal; it passed in a haze of pink fluffiness and was over in a few moments. Julie wore a party dress with a white bridal headdress, Larissa threw confetti, House took photos on his cameraphone, and Wilson seemed happy in a slightly bemused way throughout. Actually, it was almost fun. House couldn't help but compare it rather favorably to the monstrously overdone family events that Wilson had had the first two times.

Afterwards, the bride and groom vanished up to their suite. House ordered a vodka martini, and hit the poker tables to pretend he was James Bond. The vodka martinis combined with the excess of Vicodin which was swirling heavily inside his system, sent him from table to table in a haze. He won more than he lost though, so he let the momentum carry him along.

After a while he realized through fog that a blonde woman across the table was playing to beat him. He beat her, although it was close, and another drink later, he lost the next game to her. Somewhere in the haze inside his head he realized he knew who she was. The rest of his head couldn't remember and didn't care anyway, not even when they were back in his suite together, taking off their clothes on his king-size bed, and then she was riding him, and he was thrusting up inside her with abandon.

He fell asleep immediately afterwards, and woke half an hour later when his leg started to complain viciously about the stress it had been under. He reached for the Vicodin on the nightstand, and swallowed one. He then noticed the condom box next to the bottle. A box of two, one there intact in the foil, the other a torn and empty wrapper. Suddenly he remembered putting the dollar into the machine in the casino bathroom the evening before, thumping the machine when it wouldn't disgorge the box immediately...

Dread swept over him. He turned over and looked at the woman sleeping beside him. For Christ's sake, it was Larissa.

Somehow he had ended up fucking the maid of honor. Hadn't that happened before? What was it about Wilson's weddings that he always ended up with a sense of déjà vu? And God, wasn't she the most annoying woman in the world?

House couldn't stand the thought of being in bed with her a moment longer, but his leg wouldn't let him move immediately. He fumed in the darkness for ten minutes until he felt able to get up. He went to the bathroom to clean himself up and shower. He was full of disgust and revulsion--at himself, at Larissa, at Wilson for getting him into this whole damn mess to start with.

He sat in front of the TV, channel hopping ceaselessly. Eventually he dozed off.

He woke when a voice said, "Morning, Greg." He opened his eyes, found daylight seeping into the room, and Larissa standing looking at him, wearing a hotel white bathrobe. She looked.... _triumphant _was the first word that sprang to mind.

Oh God, it wasn't a nightmare after all. It was real and now he had to cope with the aftermath.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up straight. "Larissa." He cleared his throat. "I don't like you and you don't like me. Go back to your suite and we'll pretend this never happened."

She smirked. "I'll go back to my suite with pleasure. But as for pretending this never happened... sorry. I've already texted Julie to tell her."

House couldn't believe it. "You _what?_"

"To collect. I bet her a hundred dollars on the plane yesterday that I could seduce you. I couldn't resist, I've always thought the cane was a turn-on." She smirked again. House was so outraged he couldn't speak. "Julie thought there was no way you'd go for it, but it was much easier than I thought, actually. You seem like such a grouch, so aloof. But in the end, you're led by your dick just like all men."

"You manipulative bitch." House was furious.

"Thanks," she shot back. "I'll be sure to tell Julie how kinky the bum leg is."

"Get the fuck out of here!" House bellowed, and she left. House sat fuming on the sofa for a few minutes, then got up to put the Jacuzzi on.

* * *

After a short while there was a knock at the door which House recognized. He got up, opened the door, and headed straight back for the sofa. Wilson followed him in and shut the door behind him. He glanced round House's suite cautiously.

"She's gone," House said shortly. "You know what happened?"

"I saw the text she sent Julie." Wilson sat down beside House. "God, I'm sorry, House. I had no idea."

"You damn well better had not," House barked.

"If I'd known I would have told you," Wilson said sharply, and House knew that was true. Wilson went on in a pacifying manner, "Julie's sorry too. She says she really didn't think Larissa was serious. Anyway, I thought we could go get some breakfast together."

"Shouldn't you be breakfasting with your brand new wife?" House demanded.

Wilson looked at the floor. "Actually, she's gone off to have breakfast with Larissa. And then they're going shopping. To spend Larissa's hundred dollars... Julie said they'd meet us at the airport. I think they want to talk about us."

"What, compare notes on... our performance?" House shuddered. "I hope you don't want to do the same, because I do not want to hear about your wedding night."

"Good, because I've no intention of telling you," Wilson said dryly, then grinned. "I am kinda curious about Larissa though."

House snorted. "I was already doing my best to forget the whole thing before I even knew about the bet. I'm now working on blotting out what I do remember." He sighed. "My God, Wilson, this must be a record even for you. Your marriage already sucks, and its only the morning after the night before."

"Thanks for that observation," Wilson said, deadpan. "Its gonna be a fun flight home for us all, don't you think?"

House shuddered again, then said carefully, "There's only one thing that would make the flight back with those two idiots sitting giggling about us even slightly bearable. And that would be me sitting there smugly in the knowledge that the best man had just screwed the groom in the Jacuzzi."

House wasn't sure how Wilson would react to this--it was the day after his wedding, after all--but was pleased to see Wilson's eyes darken with sudden interest.

"Never had sex in a Jacuzzi before," Wilson said casually.

"You've gotta be kidding me, after all those months with Chris fucking every which way," House couldn't help but comment. Wilson looked away, and House hurried on. "Anyway, it's right over there, and you know what? I think the buoyancy from the water in there gives my leg a bit more flexibility than usual."

Now Wilson's eyes were hungry, and House knew he had him. Third brand new wife be damned, offer Jimmy Wilson sex in a whirlpool bath and he was anyone's. Well, House's, certainly.

"Give me two secs," said Wilson, and he vanished into the bathroom.

House retrieved the remaining condom from the nightstand, then went over to the Jacuzzi, stripped and settled himself in the water. He positioned himself over a stream of bubbles, letting them pop up around his right thigh. A minute later Wilson was back, stepping carefully down into the water. House felt his cock surge to erection just at the sight: Wilson, naked, looking young and pink, and with a hard-on coming along nicely.

"Fuck! That's hot," Wilson gasped as he lowered himself into the water and sat down.

"Hot? You ain't seen nothing yet." House reached out with a foot, the water billowing splendidly to support it, and nudged Wilson's inner thigh.

"Well, when you put it like that." Wilson leaned back, grasping the wall behind his head, and reached out with his own foot.

House closed his eyes and felt Wilson's toes skimming upwards, and tickling his balls. "Yargh," House said, a trifle indistinct, as the soles of two deft feet came to rest against his cock, one on each side, toes curling round and then moving to roll House up and down. "Wow. Can you write with these feet?"

"Just the left one," Wilson deadpanned.

"Figures, being a southpaw--Goddamnit, stop." House couldn't remember when he'd last been brought so swiftly to the brink of orgasm. Wilson yanked his feet backwards just in time. House sat breathing for a few seconds, then lunged towards Wilson. Wilson met him half way, and they kissed and embraced amid the swirling water.

"If your wife could see you now--" House muttered.

"Shut up and blow me." Wilson wriggled away, and hauled himself out of the water, perching on the edge. House floated across and balancing against the sides with his hands, he took Wilson's cock in his mouth. Bubbles seeped around his face and he couldn't help but splutter a little. It didn't seem to matter: Wilson was groaning and bucking his hips, and a minute later he pulled back with a full-body shudder and came over House's face. House took great pleasure in merely having to duck his head underwater to wash it away; Wilson slithered limply back into the water.

House scooted to the edge and stood up long enough to roll the condom on, then splashed back to Wilson. "Turn around and prepare to be ass-fucked, newlywed."

Wilson turned around, gripping the edge of the bath. House pressed up against him, supporting himself on his good leg and letting water support the bad one. He relished the feel of Wilson's back clammy and squeaking against his chest, Wilson's wet hair tickling his chin. House explored briefly, then eased inside: wet and tight and _God_, so good. Small waves rocked around their bodies, and Wilson whimpered a little, as House began to thrust with a vengeance. House thought of yesterday's ceremony; so Wilson was married again; _so fucking what,_ if this could happen. Wilson was still his and always would be. House climaxed with a cry, sending watery shockwaves in all directions around them.

The flight home later was indeed bearable. House refused to even try and be civil to either Julie or Larissa, and he and Wilson sat in one corner of first class with the girls at the other. Every time a giggle reached House's ears, he closed his eyes and pictured Wilson sitting naked in the Jacuzzi, looking at House with _fuck-me_ eyes, and the satisfaction was immense.

END OF PART 19

* * *

TBC: Next and final part: Wilson tries to make his marriage work and gets offered another job. House employs three new staff in succession, as we reach canon.

A/N: Wilson's relationship with Chris is told in The Story of Chris. House's first meeting with Julie is in When House Met the Wilson Wives. Click on my username for links.


	20. Chapter 20

**Title:** Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 20/20  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
**Beta: ** triedunture, fantastic to the end  
**A/N:** Last part of a backstory taking place over twenty years, all the way to canon.

**Summary: **Wilson tries to make his marriage work and gets offered another job. House employs three new staff in succession as we reach canon.  
**Excerpt:** _Wilson might be known as the House Whisperer, but House thought of himself as the direct line to all things Wilsonian._

**Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 20**

As they pulled on coats to leave the bowling alley after an enjoyable evening's bowling, Wilson said, "I won't be around tomorrow night--Julie and I have one of our staff dinners."

"And how are your 'At Home with the Wilsons' going?" House asked, knotting his scarf around his neck. "Are there many excruciating evenings of strained conversation with underlings to go?"

"A few. And it's not like that. It's quite enjoyable, believe it or not." Wilson had been having oncology staff over in small groups for dinner once a week, following his surprise marriage. The Vegas wedding had been presented to family, friends and hospital colleagues as an impulsive romantic trip; Wilson had received many best wishes after the event, and Julie had suggested the series of dinners as a way of her getting to know everybody. Take-up had been uniformly good, as most oncology staff were very curious to meet their boss' new wife and see inside their home. Julie's old home, actually; Wilson had moved in with her. House had visited, and been vaguely appalled by the heavy drapes, dark paintwork and chintz; Julie hadn't felt the need to move or redecorate after her divorce. House was also sure that Julie had done similar dinner parties for her former husband's work colleagues. Altogether, it seemed to him that Julie was doing her best to live her life exactly as it had been before. Just with a different husband.

"So perhaps I should have my staff come to my place for dinner," House said, his tone mischievous.

"So long as they know they'd get fed Cheerios and peanut butter sandwiches," Wilson remarked. They stepped outside, leaving a room full of smoke and color and noise, and found themselves in a chilly parking lot surrounded by swirling white fog. The air was damp and visibility was poor.

Wilson pulled his coat close around himself and said abruptly, "House, there's something I wanted to tell you... about my marriage..."

"Christ, I don't want to know, whatever it is." House was exasperated. Trust Wilson to bring something like this up, just when House was looking forward to going home and relaxing. "Unless you're getting divorced, but that's too soon even for you."

Wilson and Julie had now been married some six months or so. House had half-expected them to separate in record time, but instead they were confounding him by actually trying to make their marriage work.

"I really want to make it work," Wilson said now, as they began to edge cautiously across the parking lot towards Wilson's Volvo. "I can't possibly be a third time divorcee; I want to do everything possible to make this marriage last. I'm going to try not to work too hard, try and spend lots of time with her--"

"Is that really wise?" House quipped. Wilson ignored him.

"I'm going to remember birthdays and anniversaries... and I'm not going to cheat on her. I'm going to be faithful."

"Right."

"I mean it." Wilson's tone was matter-of-fact, but he stopped and looked at House.

House stopped too, standing close. He could see Wilson's breath as a white mist, feel it on his cheek. The white blanket of fog surrounded them; they were alone in their own private cloud.

"You mean..." House arched an eyebrow and pointed towards himself.

"I _do_ mean." Wilson met his eye.

Christ, Wilson was cutting him off. That... was new. House was momentarily stunned. His first impulse was to tell Wilson he gave it six weeks, but House was suddenly unsure. He'd tried to go cold turkey off Wilson before, several times, when he'd met Stacy in particular... but Wilson was always too fucking irresistible to keep that up indefinitely. While House wasn't at all sure that he himself was so fucking irresistible.

"Fine," House said eventually, figuring that humoring Wilson was the way to go.

"Really?"

"Yeah. You're her husband, you _should_ be faithful. Why are we even having this conversation?" And House dipped his head to brush his nose ever so gently against Wilson's nose, then stepped away towards the Volvo.

* * *

At the sight of Wilson on the balcony outside their offices, House picked up a fistful of résumés and headed outside. It was raining very lightly, more dampness in the air than actual raindrops.

"Ever heard of Dr. Rowan Chase?" House said in greeting, pushing the papers towards Wilson's hand.

"Uh, should I have?" Wilson took the papers and peered at them.

"Only if you're up on Australian rheumatologists." House looked up at the sky, feeling the moisture in the air settling on his face.

"I can't say I am. An Australian rheumatologist has applied for your fellowship?"

"No, but his son has. Dr. Rowan Chase telephoned me this morning to tell me, all the way from the land Down Under."

"Nepotism, alive and well."

"Actually, no, unless there's some serious double bluffing going on." House closed his eyes, letting tiny drops of rain rest on his eyelids and eyelashes. "He said that in his professional opinion he didn't think his son would be suitable, and I might want to take that into consideration. And I said, do you speak-a my language?"

"And then he smiled and gave you a Vegemite sandwich," Wilson supplied the line readily, and House opened his eyes and grinned, pleased. Wilson pulled out a résumé from the stack. "Here we are. Dr. Robert Chase. Intensivist."

"Now that would be useful," House said enthusiastically. "Intensivist. You don't get many of those around."

Wilson fixed House with a steely glare. "House, you cannot hire someone just because their father apparently hates them enough to call you all the way from Australia."

"Of course not," House said with fake indignation. "He might have a stupid accent or something serious like that, we need to interview him. We'll schedule him first."

Wilson sighed. "So if you like him, you don't have to see anyone else afterwards."

"You know me too well, Jimmy," said House, and Wilson smiled at the use of his name. He reached out to ruffle House's hair, and then unexpectedly dropped a quick kiss on the back of House's neck. House reveled in the moment of intimacy, and didn't move, for fear of spoiling it; Wilson had been serious about being faithful to Julie. There had been the odd snatched affectionate peck, and House had nibbled on Wilson's ear a few days before in an empty clinic exam room. But they hadn't led anywhere; Wilson was trying to keep his distance.

Wilson lingered on the balcony for a few more seconds, then put the bundle of papers back into House's hands, and vanished back into his office.

House stayed outside for a while, letting the pile of résumés grow damp.

* * *

After a long quiet period, House found his life was suddenly full of distractions. He had a new member of staff to train, and a new guy living in the apartment upstairs to obsess over. Tall and skinny, with a mop of fair hair and sparking greeny-blue eyes like the sea, Gary struck an unexpected chord with House and they ended up in bed together the day after Gary had moved in. The sex was hot, the shared company surprisingly pleasurable.

The distractions were sufficient that House didn't immediately notice when in the midst of it all, Chris reappeared in Wilson's life. Linus, a friend of Chris's was diagnosed with cancer, and became a patient of Wilson's. This would normally have been a matter of grave concern for House except that House was getting regularly laid elsewhere, Wilson was still valiantly not cheating on Julie, and Chris and Linus were pretending to be a couple while at the hospital. The risk of Wilson tumbling back into bed with Chris seemed minimal.

Nevertheless House had to keep tabs on the situation. As his new fellow Robert Chase was very green and not up to actually doing much work yet, House encouraged him to hang out with Linus. "But watch out, if you have to take him to the bathroom and he drops the soap, be careful not to pick it up for him."

"I can cope with that," said Chase, and he duly reported back to House that Chris visited reasonably often but was not around the hospital all the time, and his contact with Wilson was fairly minimal. House was reassured.

"Linus is a good guy," Chase added. "We get on well. He told me to drop by his place if I was ever down by the coast, he gives a lot of parties apparently."

"I'd be very careful of going to his kind of parties," House said darkly. Wilson had always been very close mouthed about the kind of thing he'd done during relationship he'd had with Chris, but House had gotten the impression that all-male parties had played a part. "Or orgies, as they might be better known."

"Could be fun," Chase said with nonchalance, and House was amused at how undaunted Chase seemed to be by whatever House threw at him. Maybe there was some hope of him turning out a decent diagnostician after all.

* * *

Wilson opened his front door, and was surprised to see House. House looked almost as surprised to see Wilson, even though it was Wilson's house.

"Julie not around?" House asked.

"She's staying at her mother's for a couple of days," Wilson said. He wasn't actually sure where Julie was (she had told him, but he hadn't listened properly and was subsequently too embarrassed to admit it), but the lie rolled so smoothly off the tongue he barely even thought about it.

House stepped inside. "I was going to lure you out to a bar, but I guess I might as well come in. Assuming you have beer, of course."

"Beer I can do." Wilson went to the kitchen, and came through to the living room a minute later carrying two bottles of beer in each hand. House was flopped down on the couch staring round the room.

"Are those new curtains? They're hideous. Every time I come here I remember how much I hate this place."

"Gee, thanks," Wilson said dryly, sitting next to House and handing him a bottle. "So why are you subjecting yourself to my interior decor then?"

House took a swig of beer. "Gary's moved out."

"Oh." Wilson pondered. "That's good, right? It must have been awkward, meeting him in the hallway since..." Gary had dumped House the previous week.

"Yeah. It's just... he's gone to live in London."

"Wow, you drove him three thousand miles away!"

"He says," House's voice was very neutral, "his company are transferring him and it was planned a long time ago."

Oh. Wilson contemplated what that meant. Had Gary gone into this relationship with House knowing he'd be leaving the country shortly? Had this always just been a brief fling for him?

"You believe that?" Wilson asked eventually.

"Fuck only knows." House said, drained the bottle, and reached for another.

Wilson shook his head and opened one for himself.

They put the TV on and sat up channel surfing late into the night. By 2 AM they had both dozed off, Wilson slumped into House's shoulder. Eventually House woke with a jerk, and the movement woke Wilson up too. House mumbled that he was going to see if he could possibly bear the wallpaper in the guest room, and if so, he was going to bed. Wilson staggered up, followed House to the guest room, and fell down on the bed next to House. The two of them slept through to the morning, Wilson with an arm looped around House's waist, House leaning the side of his face against Wilson's neck.

When Wilson returned from work the following day, Julie was back. Wilson told her House had stayed the previous night in the guest room. He was pleased he'd thought to rumple the sheets of their own bed so it looked like he'd slept there.

* * *

"Hi, honey, I'm home," Wilson called as he shut his front door behind him.

Julie came out into the hallway, her mouth forming an O of surprise. She was wearing her coat. "James, I didn't know you were going to be back so soon, I've arranged to go out."

"Uh, I'm sorry," Wilson said, wondering why he was apologizing for having left work on time for once. "I thought it would be nice to be home in time for dinner..."

"The girls from my Spanish class are going out for drinks, there's a couple of birthdays." Julie paused. "I don't have to go, I can call them--"

"No, no, no. You go, you don't need to change your plans. I should have warned you." And now he actually felt _guilty_ about having left work on time for once.

"Well..." Julie upturned her hands. "If you really don't mind... I was just on my way... Look, your dinner's all ready to heat up, I'll just go put it in the oven for you."

She disappeared into the kitchen. Wilson hung up his coat slowly, depressed to think that even though House was hardly interfering at all, his marriage was nevertheless slowly falling apart. He was failing to spend as much time with her as he'd hoped, but when he was around, she quite often wasn't there. She was developing her own interests, seeing more of her friends. Not that they fought, they were just too polite to each other.

He followed her into the kitchen, musing that he really must not forget their first wedding anniversary next month. He knew it was coming up as he had gotten Nora, the Oncology Department secretary, to stick reminders of significant dates on his calendar; but he then found himself unsure how to mark such dates when they arrived. He didn't have much intuition about what she might like to have as a gift or do to celebrate. Perhaps he'd just ask her. Tomorrow, maybe.

"Good day at work?" she asked with a modicum of interest, tucking a casserole dish into the oven.

"House had another fellow quit on him. Second one in six months. Means I've got interviews to look forward to, again," Wilson said with a laugh.

At the mention of House, Julie's lips thinned. "Why does he need you to interview with him?"

"Cuddy banned House from interviewing on his own years ago, after the first two lawsuits. I'm the only person even remotely willing to do it."

"What would he do without you?" Julie said rhetorically, as she turned the dial on the stove. "Give it twenty minutes, it should be nice and hot. Look, I have to run, I'll see you later."

She kissed him briefly on the cheek, and was gone.

Alone, Wilson wondered whether to call House, but decided not to. He'd made quite a thing about leaving work to go home on time this afternoon to spend the evening with his wife, he didn't want to admit that it hadn't worked out.

So, the being-faithful-to-her thing had fallen through, and it wasn't because of any grand seduction on either side, it was because House had needed him. Wilson had come to House's rescue after Gary had dumped him, and offered comfort in the way that came naturally to him, the way he knew worked best; ending up in bed. Wilson had since concluded that fidelity hadn't actually been the marriage-saver he had thought it might be. And that was just because he hadn't been cheating physically didn't mean he hadn't been still cheating on her emotionally. He always had another priority higher than her.

But he wasn't giving up on making this marriage work. How could he? It was bad enough being twice divorced already: as House had said on one occasion, "Once is a mistake. Twice looks like carelessness. Three times, and everyone will assume you're a secret wife-beating sicko." Nobody would ever want to date him again. They'd think something must be seriously wrong...

* * *

Interviewing with House was always a frustrating experience. Three candidates had been lined up, but mid-way through the second interview, House brightly told the candidate they had the job.

"House," Wilson said in exasperation afterwards. "Why do you even have me sit in on your interviews, when you don't even ask what I think? There's still one more candidate waiting outside!"

"No point wasting time on them when we've already got the right person," House said cheerfully. "And you're here because Cuddy won't let me interview on my own, not because I care what you think. How was your weekend, by the way? Have a happy anniversary?"

"You're deflecting. Why her? What was so good about--" Wilson picked up the application--"Allison Cameron?"

"You're evading 'cause your weekend sucked. As for Cameron, Wilson, did you _see _her?"

"House, you cannot hire people because they're hot." Wilson was absolutely not admitting to House, or anyone, that his weekend away with Julie had indeed sucked. They had gone to Niagara Falls. The Falls had been spectacular, they'd had a great view from their hotel, and a good dinner in the evening... and somehow Wilson had hardly enjoyed himself at all. He was having a hard time figuring out why. He refused to believe it was because House had gone to a Monster Truck event in his absence.

"Why not? You do."

"I do not!" Wilson was indignant.

"You so do. Whenever I see a new intern in Oncology they're female, blonde, with big boobs."

"That is... a gross exaggeration."

"I'd say it was a slight exaggeration. Anyway, as a cripple, I need beautiful staff around me to look at. I've already got Chase, Cameron will compliment him nicely."

"House, that is not any sort of criteria for hiring a fellow." Wilson looked down at the résumé again. "Hold on. I see it."

"What?"

"Your real reason. It's here under 'Marital Status: Widow'. She's only twenty-five and she's widowed already. You want to know more, don't you? That's your puzzle."

"You'd better tell that last candidate to go home." House stretched in his chair. "Did I tell you that Bigfoot did a slap wheelie? Man, the crowd loved it."

* * *

Wilson had to go up to Trenton for a weekend family get-together; Julie cried off coming with him at the last minute, claiming she had a migraine. Wilson didn't fully believe this, but as he couldn't blame her for not wanting to see his family, he shrugged and went by himself. It wasn't terribly successful but at least there weren't any arguments. Instead his brother Jonathan drank too much and fell asleep in a corner.

Wilson stayed the night, went out on the Sunday morning to pick up a few groceries for Mom, and got chatting to a woman he met in the store. Her name was Rebecca and she was a kindergarten teacher. She talked in a lively and enthusiastic way about her work and the children she taught, and Wilson was enchanted. She asked him if he'd like to do dinner sometime, and Wilson immediately confessed he was married.

"But... it would be nice..."

"I can be discreet," she said.

And as he'd already given up on this fidelity thing, he gave in to temptation. Their affair was enjoyable but short-lived; Wilson felt guilty--considerably more so than he did with House--and although she clearly got a kick out of of sneaking around with a married man, even inventing code names for the two of them, the novelty soon wore off. The periods between meetings got longer and longer, and eventually she broke up with him, very gracefully, explaining she'd gotten a new boyfriend who she liked a lot. Wilson was genuinely happy for her.

* * *

The resignation of another of House's fellows, the third to go in a year, rendered House vaguely depressed for a month about the prospect of recruiting and training all over again. He took to spending long periods idle, doing as little work as he could possibly get away with. When they did get a patient, Chase and Cameron were both still sufficiently clueless that House was reluctant to work with the two of them on their own, even for a short time. As his recent resignee had only moved to another department at Princeton Plainsboro, and was therefore still reachable on the end of a pager, House continued to call him in for differential diagnoses when he felt the need. It was only a matter of time before Cuddy turned up at House's desk to tell him this had to stop and he had to recruit a new fellow NOW.

"Have you even advertised?"she demanded.

"Yes," House said irritably, and waved at a tall stack of résumés. "Just haven't had the chance to go through them yet."

"Because you've been so busy recently," Cuddy said sarcastically. "Block some time, call Wilson and set up some interviews." She stood up to leave, and added as an afterthought, "By the way, is anything up with Wilson? I thought he's seemed a bit out of sorts the last couple of weeks."

House, mortally offended at the very idea that anyone had noticed anything about Wilson that he hadn't, switched automatically to lie mode rather than admit this. Wilson might be known as the House Whisperer, but House thought of himself as the direct line to all things Wilsonian.

"Wilson? He's fine, just been working too hard recently. You should take him off some of those committees you keep putting him on."

"You volunteering to take his place?" Cuddy said with mock enthusiasm at the prospect, and left.

House sat and tried to recall when he'd last seen Wilson for any length of time. A few days ago, possibly. He didn't remember noticing anything wrong, but then House had been rather self-absorbed recently. And yet for the first time in his life, House was experiencing some degree of security; finally settled in his tenured job, with Cuddy as his champion (since appointing him as Head of Diagnostics she had already seen off two attempts by hostile board members to get rid of him) and acceptable quantities of Vicodin to numb the pain; Wilson was just next door, and while the man's marriage was obviously crappy it was not, House thought, on the verge of collapse; he thought it had another couple of years to run yet, and House could live with that. Sooth to say, after so many years of stealing his food, House had rather started to take Wilson for granted.

Deciding he had been remiss, House engineered lunch with Wilson the following day, and told him that Cuddy was on the warpath and they would have to set up some fellowship interviews soon.

"Well, get on with it, let me know when," Wilson said. He poked at the uneaten sandwich on his plate. "Did you get many applicants? After what you put in the ad?"

"Dozens. Apparently the phrase, 'Only masochists need apply', didn't put people off as much as I hoped."

Wilson snorted. "Your fame precedes you."

"If they can't take the heat, they shouldn't come in the kitchen," House pronounced loftily, and to his surprise Wilson suddenly glared at him and put his hands palms down on the table.

"You can be a real ass sometimes, God only knows why anyone wants to work with you," he said, and abruptly stood up and walked out of the cafeteria.

House gaped and stared after him. He was used to Wilson's patience being endless. It was rare for him to snap like that. And under so little provocation. Cuddy was right, something was wrong, and House just hadn't noticed. His mind skipped over possibilities; perhaps Wilson's marriage was closer to the end than he'd thought.

House got up, left the cafeteria and headed straight for Wilson's office. He went in without knocking. Wilson was at his desk, surrounded with piles of paperwork, apparently trying to bury himself in it all.

"Go away House, I'm busy," he said curtly. House sat down opposite him instead.

"Wilson, what's up?"

"Nothing. Go away." A muscle jumped in Wilson's forehead and his eye twitched.

"I'm going to find out sooner or later," House said, gently, for him. "You may as well tell me now and save us both the trouble."

Wilson closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side, apparently realizing the truth of what House said. He opened his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and looked House squarely in the eye.

"I've been offered another job."

House froze. Suddenly he felt as if his stomach had been cut open and the contents dropped on the floor. It wasn't surprising--Wilson had been made Head of Oncology at Princeton Plainsboro before the age of forty, a notable achievement, and it was to be expected that other hospitals would come sniffing around him at some point. But somehow House really hadn't expected it to happen right now.

Wilson kept on looking at him, apparently not in the mood for volunteering more than asked.

"Where?" House asked eventually.

"Vancouver."

That was not good. Vancouver had a good oncology department, and they'd made overtures to Wilson before. They would be paying top dollar. Also Wilson loved Canada--he had grandparents there, he was a McGill graduate, for goodness sake--and House could imagine him being tempted.

"Much more money?" House asked, painfully.

"A lot more money."

House winced. "When did they offer?"

"Two weeks ago."

_Two weeks ago! _ "Why didn't you tell me before?" House was indignant.

"For Christ's sake, I've tried! House, you know you've had your head up your ass for the last month," Wilson said through gritted teeth.

House couldn't deny that. "When do they need to know by?"

Wilson's reply was unexpected. "Yesterday."

House swallowed. "So, what did you say?"

"I told them no. _Of course _I told them no." Wilson broke eye contact and slumped forward on his desk, head in hands.

House was quiet. He felt relief, overwhelming relief, but also an growing sense of guilt, an emotion he always tried to avoid and deny if at all possible. His leg began to throb; his hand started to move towards his pocket for the Vicodin bottle, and he stopped himself, not wanting to do anything to upset Wilson further right now.

Presently Wilson went on, "I didn't tell Julie, because I knew she'd want me to take it. But she found the offer letter in my pocket a few days ago. I've heard of nothing else since." He reached into the inside breast of his jacket and pulled out a letter. He threw it towards House. "_You_ try telling your wife that you're turning down a job like that because you can't leave your best friend who treats you like crap and who's hardly spoken to you for the last month."

House unfolded the letter. It was several pages long, but the important bit, the money, was on the first page. House goggled at the salary. He didn't know exactly what Wilson earned, but he had a good idea, and this looked like a one hundred per cent increase. Plus a golden handshake and a generous relocation allowance.

"You could have taken it," he said eventually.

Wilson laughed hollowly. "Yeah, right." He reached out and took the letter back from House, and stuffed it back in his jacket pocket.

"I could move," House said, knowing as he spoke how difficult that would be, perhaps impossible. He'd been fired from too many jobs in the past. There were not many employers who would put up with him in the way that Cuddy did. At Princeton Plainsboro House had _his _dream job, with a department created especially for him; that wasn't going to happen anywhere else. "Or visit you. We've lived a long way apart before--"

"That was then, House, and this is now," Wilson said flatly.

Wilson was right and House knew he was right. They'd coped before, when they were younger, jobs had been short-term contracts, other relationships fleeting for the most part, and when House hadn't been crippled. Since they'd both ended up in Princeton, everything had changed. They'd put down roots; their roots had become inextricably intertwined, and they couldn't uproot one without uprooting the other. Not without a great deal of pain. And they both had quite enough of that already, in their different ways.

Now House was upset too, and when he was upset he lashed out. "You're an idiot. You should have taken the damn job." And to rub salt in the wound, he added, "Everybody leaves in the end, remember? Maybe this is your time."

Wilson slammed a fist into his desk. "Stop screwing with me, House, and get the hell out of my office."

House could rarely remember seeing him so angry. House stalked out, shut the door behind him, and gulped down two Vicodin at once.

* * *

The following morning Cuddy arrived at work at her usual time to find House sitting in her office, dozing in her chair. She was astounded; House didn't usually arrive at work for another four hours. Actually she thought he was possibly wearing the same clothes as yesterday; certainly he looked even more scruffy than usual.

"House! Wake up and get out of my chair."

House jerked awake. "Dr. Cuddy, good morning." He didn't move from the chair.

"And to what do I owe the honor of this early morning call?" Cuddy demanded suspiciously. She sat down opposite him.

House rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and leaned forwards. "You have to give Wilson a raise."

Whatever Cuddy had been expecting, it wasn't that. "Oh yes, fine. I always say yes to requests like that out of the blue first thing in the morning. Especially from you, House."

"You value him as Head of your Oncology department, right? You want to keep him? Take a look at this." House pulled a copy of Wilson's Vancouver offer letter from his pocket and tossed it across the desk to her. He had sneaked into Wilson's office the previous evening, when Wilson had popped out and left his jacket hanging on his door, and photocopied it. "I think Princeton Plainsboro needs to be a bit more... competitive."

Cuddy read the letter and frowned. "Has he accepted this?"

"No. Because he's a jackass. But he _deserves_ it, Cuddy." House produced another sheaf of papers. "Now, this is his salary over the last three years, since he got his current job--" (Cuddy closed her eyes, not wanting to speculate how House had broken into her computer again)--"and frankly I'd say you got him on the cheap. He was an internal candidate, it was a time when he was not in a position to make demands, for reasons we both know," (Cuddy knew that House was talking about his own post-infarction, post-Stacy mess) "he was very young so not as experienced as some, and he obviously got the absolute bottom of whatever pay scale you were using. His drunken moronic predecessor must have been on a helluva lot more. This hospital must've saved hundreds of thousands in the last three years since Collins retired, just by paying a smaller salary."

Cuddy's eyes narrowed. "Wilson could be making this case to me himself, you know."

"He wouldn't because he's too modest, and an idiot, and anyway, what would you have done if he'd come to you with that offer letter?"

"I would have..." Cuddy looked down at it again. "I would have thought it was a bargaining chip, because he wouldn't leave, even for that, and I'd have met him halfway."

"Right. But _I'm_ not meeting you half way. I'm telling you he deserves this full increase, he's owed it. He's proved he can run that department and run it well. His reputation has grown and he gets consults from all over the world. And you've put him on just about every board and committee there is in this hospital, because you can rely on him to do a good job."

Cuddy leaned back in her chair. "House, I can't just give out a large pay increase out of nowhere. Not without money coming in from somewhere."

"Crap. You've got donors coming out of your ears at the moment. Get one of them to give something to Oncology, and stick it in your head of department's pay packet."

"It doesn't work like that, House. But you've given me an idea." She smiled, and it was a calculating sort of smile. "You're right, Wilson gives a lot to this hospital. And you know what? Its partly that he's picking up your slack. Doing the things that you refuse to do."

"I am _not_ doing clinic duty."

Cuddy wasn't ready to fight that battle just yet, and ignored House's comment. "I mean stuff like meeting donors. Donors who might give something to Oncology, say. Donors who always want to meet the doctors on the frontline before they get their checkbook out. Funnily enough, I've got someone like that coming in this morning. I think if he was to meet our legendary Head of Diagnostics, and if that legendary Head actually talked to him and was polite to him, he might be that much more inclined to add an extra zero."

* * *

That evening, House was slumped in his apartment in front of the TV when Wilson came visiting. House hadn't seen Wilson all day; after shmoozing the donor that morning for Cuddy he'd gone straight home, partly in disgust at himself, partly because he'd been up all night before.

Wilson sat down on the couch next to House and put some paper bags down on the table. "So, Cuddy called me in to her office this afternoon and guess what, she's giving me a raise."

"Really?" House muttered.

"Yes, and funnily enough it's exactly the same amount that Vancouver were offering. To the dollar."

"Coincidence," House murmured, pleased that Cuddy had come through.

"Julie's quite placated," Wilson went on. "She assumes I've negotiated it, but I haven't, isn't that odd?"

"Very strange," House agreed solemnly, and looked up at Wilson with wide eyes.

"Thank-you, House." Wilson grinned at him. "I've brought beer. And the suicide by cholesterol menu."

House sat up, delighted. "Fried chicken and donuts!"

"I don't know how you did it," Wilson said, digging into a bag and producing two bottles of beer.

"I prostituted myself to Cuddy," House said, flipping one open.

That made Wilson laugh. "Not literally, I hope."

"Pretty much. I had to shmooze a donor." House pulled a face and drank deeply from the bottle.

"Well I know how difficult that is for you, so thanks," Wilson deadpanned, and took a swig from his own bottle.

"She didn't need much persuading; she knew you were worth it," House added, and moved the conversation swiftly on. "I've found my top choice next fellowship applicant, by the way."

"Oh?" Wilson opened another bag and produced boxes of fried chicken.

"Wings? Gimme." House handed Wilson a résumé and took a piece of chicken in return. "He's perfect. He's black with a criminal record."

That made Wilson splutter. "A criminal record?" He peered at the piece of paper in front of him, holding it by the edges to avoid getting greasy fingermarks on it.

"It's not on the application. It's a juvie record, sealed." House munched chicken.

"House, this really takes the cake. You want to hire someone because they have a criminal record. Which you shouldn't know about anyway."

"My team break into people's houses, you know that. It'll be useful having someone around who actually knows how to pick locks and stuff."

Wilson sighed. "You know, I do believe this is your actual reason. That," he tapped the paper, "and figuring out how someone with a criminal record also managed to get a 4.0 GPA."

"No," House countered, "My real reason is to keep Cuddy happy. My department is already a model of equal opps for cripples, chicks, and kangaroos. All I need is for Chase to start lusting over Foreman the way he already does over Cameron, and I'll hit the equal opportunity jackpot."

Wilson couldn't help but grin. "Or, you could hit it by telling her you had your dick up my ass tonight."

House smiled widely and reached up to flick Wilson's ear, acknowledging the offer, accepting it. "You think she'd believe me?"

They snuggled up and watched TV while finishing the chicken. House then picked up the bag of donuts, took one look and claimed the one with chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles. As House bit into it from one side, Wilson leaned over and bit into it from the other.

"Hey, no stealing my food!" House said, with mock indignation

"That's rich, after you've been stealing mine for the best part of twenty years," Wilson said, his voice amused and fond.

They shared the donut, each taking small delicate bites from each side until meeting in the middle, after which Wilson leaned over and started chewing on House's ear. Then House stood up and headed towards the bedroom, Wilson following him without discussion.

House perched on the edge of the bed. Wilson stood in front of him and unzipped House's fly, slowly, carefully; he pulled out House's rapidly hardening cock and rolled it between his hands. House shut his eyes tightly and breathed, relishing the touch of Wilson's soft fingertips and slightly calloused palms. A minute later, a different sensation; a tongue sliding across his shaft, lips delicately lapping at the tip. House opened his eyes and looked down to see Wilson's head between his legs, Wilson's mop of silky brown hair shining in the lamplight.

"Fuck, yes," House whispered, leaning back on his hands, as Wilson alternately licked and sucked, and briefly seemed as if he was about to swallow House whole.

House was just thinking he would come in Wilson's mouth when Wilson pulled back. House groaned a little in protest, as Wilson stood up and unzipped his own fly. He then unbuttoned his shirt slowly, deliberately, and pulled it off his shoulders, his nipples standing out from his chest, pale in the dim light. House hummed in appreciation as he wriggled out of his pants, watching Wilson continue to strip until he stood there naked, hard-on standing erect and proud, utterly desirable. House growled a little in the back of his throat.

Wilson stepped forward to wrap his arms around House's shoulders, and they kissed deeply, lips and tongues exploring with slow, deliberate familiarity; then Wilson put a hand to House's chest, pushing gently. House sprawled backwards onto the bed obediently and Wilson landed directly on top of him; his chest pushed against House's chest, his groin pressed up against House's groin, their cocks rubbing together, with just a little pre-come from House helping them slip and slide.

House began to pant with anticipation of climax, but stopped as Wilson pulled away again.

"What the--" House grumbled

"Your dick up my ass, remember?" Wilson raised himself on his hands and rolled to one side, groping in the nightstand drawer. House watched as Wilson tore open the condom packet. Instead of putting it on himself, though, Wilson came to straddle House again, and rolled it carefully onto House's cock in a gentle, intimate action. House hissed a little at the snap of latex, but stayed hard, trusting Wilson to do this properly, and grew harder as Wilson stroked lube onto House's cock. Wilson then reached back to prepare himself.

"God..." House was husky, overwhelmed with beauty and lust and love, and simple gratitude that he had Wilson in his life.

Wilson bent his head to drop a kiss on House's mouth. Then he eased himself down onto House's cock, and House was transfixed at the sight of Wilson's contorted face. Wilson took House inside him at first awkwardly, then more readily with each thrust, and then swaying and riding along right there with House, desire and enthusiasm evident with every movement. Up and down, House doing the fucking but Wilson on top and in control, clenching, bringing House slowly back--towards--fan-fucking-tastic _ecstasy_--House reached forward to grab at Wilson's cock, tall and straining; Wilson gasped at the first touch and came at the second, sticky fluid seeping into House's triumphant fist. With a final buck of the hips House climaxed too, coming with a rush of adrenalin over the top of the falls, hurtling down with a huge explosive crash of waves that roared, then rippled, and eventually calmed to absolute, contented peacefulness.

Wilson fell onto the bed beside House, neatly avoiding House's bad leg, and they crawled under the covers together, warm, cozy and close.

* * *

The following day at work, Wilson took a call from Rebecca; she had been admitted to hospital in Trenton. She was sick. Nobody could tell her what was wrong.

Wilson responded to the distress call, contacted her doctors, and arranged to have her transferred to Princeton Plainsboro.

END

* * *

So we've reached canon - and if you want, you can go straight on to The Unaired Unaired Pilot which is set during 1.01 Pilot. The story of Chris's reappearance and House's relationship with Gary is told in A House Distracted. Click my username to get the links to all my fic.

Much gratitude to everyone who has followed this fic; and in particular to all the wonderful people who left reviews. It has been hugely important to know that at least some folk out there were with me, and knowing you were there and enjoying it really helped to motivate me to continue and finish. Very many thanks!


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